A Little Like Death
by Nom de Plume1
Summary: She isn't used to this kind of magic. It is dark magic, magic that threatens her very existence. Yet it's the only way to capture a boy, who despite his silvery blond hair, is as dark as the magic himself, and doomed to become the Dark Lord's creature.
1. The Walking Lie

**Disclaimer: **The characters, settings and various other elements unique to the Harry Potter series are of course the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling. Their use in the following story is purely for recreational purposes and not at all intended for commercial use or gain.

**Chapter 1: The Walking Lie**

She was haunted; not by a ghost per se or even in the metaphorical sense by a memory. It wasn't your typical chain-rattling, bone-chilling haunt. It was much more subtle than that. Sometimes she doubted that it was actually occurring. Sometimes she thought that she'd simply made it up. It was, after all, hard to believe. Hermione was being haunted by herself.

She stopped pacing and sat down on the edge of the bed. It was at times like these when she was deep in thought that her old, familiar self surfaced. Hermione Granger, the finest witch of her age, the quick-thinking, sharp-witted and occasionally sharp-tongued Gryffindor, bubbled up inside threatening to betray her.

She stood and crossed to the mirror. She had to be sure. If she could feel that girl inside her, wouldn't it seep through? Wouldn't they see it in her eyes? Wouldn't it warp her facial expressions? Wouldn't it bleed through the pores of her skin?

The mirror's answer was short and definitive. No. As she looked at her reflection there was no trace of that girl. The bushy brown hair and the clever brown eyes were gone. The polyjuice had done its work. The potion wouldn't fail her. Snape had seen to that. The only one who could fail her was her self.

It was August and the summer was growing old. After nearly two months straight of living as someone else, she was beginning to forget certain things; her habits for one. They had changed out of necessity. The change in habits had been practically the hardest part. Hermione was a creature of habit.

Harry knew her habits and so did Ron. They could list them easily, ticking them off on the fingers of one hand. There was the constant reading and scurrying off to the library, the scribbling furiously in class, and the annoying knack she had for supplying an answer—sometimes even before the question was asked. All of these things were tell-tale signs of Hermione, so she'd hidden them away. But now she was beginning to forget them.

Perhaps even worse than forgetting was when her habits crept back to the surface unannounced and uninvited. It was as if her former self skulked in the shadows waiting for the opportunity to rise up and claim her. It stalked her waking moments. It shadowed her dreams. It haunted her.

The approaching end of summer meant some relief. Her time at the manor was drawing to a close. Once back at Hogwarts she could return to being Hermione, at least for some days. But that was not without its complications. When she wasn't living as Imogene she still had to maintain Imogene as a separate entity.

It was a complicated bit of magic that allowed the two girls to "co-exist." There was of course, the sleight-of-hand of the polyjuice potion, which altered Hermione's features and voice. There was also the Time-Turner, which allowed her to slip back and forth through time, sometimes as herself, sometimes as Imogene, to sustain the illusion that they were indeed two distinct individuals. But perhaps the most delicate part of the equation was the spellwork.

Hermione had learned under Snape's tutelage to create a double of sorts. It wasn't so much a copy of herself as it was a projection of her consciousness. It was a projection with substance, however, made to look and feel as Imogene should. Snape had explained that it was a kind of golem, a being traditionally composed of inanimate material activated by her consciousness. This "Imogene" could exist in the same time and place as Hermione, but not without taking its toll.

Mostly the golem was an empty double, designed merely to stalk the halls of Hogwarts and strengthen the illusion. So they'd taken a risk using it to introduce Imogene LeCoeur to the school. The haughty exchange student from Beaux Batons had sauntered into the Great Hall at the end of breakfast one morning almost two months before the end of term. It was the saunter that had given Hermione an acute headache. Snape had advised against making the double too distinct; the more unique its appearance and movement, the greater the strain on her concentration. But Hermione had an innate sense of Imogene; she knew that Imogene wasn't Imogene without the saunter.

The walk had worked. Heads turned as she strode in and took her place at the Slytherin table. She ignored the students around her which made her seem aloof and mysterious, but in truth Hermione hadn't yet mastered the art of getting the golem to speak. The focus required for such an act was intense and the first time she'd succeeded it had resulted in a nose bleed.

Harry had looked up to watch the new girl; Ron, too.

"Think she's part Veela, mate?" Ron said.

Harry shrugged.

"If she were I reckon you'd know it."

"What's that mean, then?" Ron asked. He had the sneaking suspicion that his best mate was insulting him. Harry said nothing fully expecting Hermione to explain. When she didn't both boys turned to look at her. She was sandwiched between them on the bench at the Gryffindor table reading silently. There was nothing unusual about that, but she did look slightly pale.

"You okay, Hermione?" asked Ron.

Hermione didn't answer at first. She could feel the golem tugging at her consciousness, demanding her attention. It made it hard to focus on the question that had been asked.

"Fine," Hermione said shortly.

"You sure?" Harry asked. He slipped the book from her hands. It was _Hogwarts: A History_. He'd known that without even looking. What surprised him was that the book was upside down. Harry glanced up at Hermione, a question forming in his eyes.

Hermione quickly looked away.

"I think she's part Veela," Ron insisted.

It was hard to believe that that conversation had only been months ago. To her it seemed like years. She'd spent the whole summer at the manor without Harry and Ron. No contact. No letters. It was too risky. The longer she stayed, the more distant they seemed. The longer she stayed, the more distant _she_ seemed. Since the start of summer she'd spent every single day as Imogene. It was Hermione Granger who had become the empty double, the phantom of dust and spirit.

Once again she looked in the mirror. She fought down the mild surprise that always accompanied the action. It didn't seem to matter how much time she spent as Imogene. The initial failure to recognize herself unsettled her every time. When recognition finally dawned it did so slowly, leaving her with the queasy sensation of bile rising in her throat. Inevitably she saw Imogene and she didn't like what she saw.

The countenance which met her gaze was striking; black hair, black eyes and pale, pale skin, nearly translucent. It was a curious pallor; wan, white and a little like death. Despite the fact that those dark eyes returned her gaze, she felt oddly detached from the world around her as if she were looking out from behind a smooth, pallid mask at events that were somehow distant and removed. It was a peculiar feeling of apathy. Hermione Granger was going numb.

**OOO**

Draco treated her with the odd formality that the manor seemed to impose on its residents. It was hard to say what precisely it was about the place that commanded the weighty sense of decorum which hung about the Malfoy ancestral home like bad breath. The building was ancient and peevishly so. It had endured long enough to have the arrogance of old age wrapped about its wizened ramparts like a cloak. The cold draughts of air which gasped through its circuitous halls felt like the dying breaths of a clan elder. A wisdom born of years of existence echoed through its passages, coupled with a certain feudal elegance. Any one of these impressions could have contributed to the sense that somehow the manor exercised its will and it would brook no disobedience from the living it consented to shelter within its walls.

Meals at the manor were formal and rules of dress observed. So it was no wonder that the relations between the two of them were cloaked in a forced courtesy. Draco often referred to her as "Cousin Imogene" which had the effect of setting her at a distance even while it implied kinship. He used the word cousin as a title and like a title it relegated her to a distinct class. Granted it was a class far above mudblood, but it was a class which precluded intimacy. Draco had succeeded even at the level of his own speech to keep her at arm's length for most of the summer.

Cousin Imogene didn't mind the distance, Hermione Granger minded even less, but there were several people who found it increasingly troubling, among them Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and Severus Snape. Lucius and Narcissa had not merely consented to take Imogene into their home, they'd invited her once they'd learned of her participation in the Academic Wizarding Exchange Program offered by the Ministry's Office of Magical Cooperation.

The LeCoeurs were an ancient pureblood wizarding family of English decent who'd recently relocated to France. Like all pureblood families they were tenuously related to the Malfoys in some respect, hence Draco's liberal use of the word cousin in reference to Imogene. The vague blood relation between the two families was not enough to dampen Lucius and Narcissa's intentions. In fact, it had the effect of bolstering them. Imogene, with her fine family pedigree, was an excellent match for their son.

The LeCoeurs were a powerful family and an alliance with them could only benefit the Malfoys. There were few wizarding families worthy of such an alliance. Lucius and Narcissa had briefly entertained the notion of a union with the Parkinsons or the Bulstrodes, but there was something decidedly common about them. Both families were dull and prosaic; it showed in their offspring.

Imogene's breeding and finely wrought features proved her other than dull. She was dark, it was true, a stark contrast to the fair-haired Malfoys, but somehow her coloring only enhanced her austere beauty. The girl had a keen intellect as well, so sharp that it bordered on dangerous, but she lacked the ruthlessness that would allow her to blossom into a true asset for the Dark Lord. It was the only flaw that Lucius could see and a minor one at that. Ruthlessness could be taught.

It was curious then that his son had spent most of the summer avoiding her. Lucius strode across the library and took a seat at the ornate wooden desk which dominated the arched stone alcove on the eastern side of the room. It was late afternoon, the sun just an hour or so from its daily descent below the horizon. As a result very little light shone through the mullioned windows behind the desk leaving Lucius in shadow. The bulk of the remaining daylight bled through the west-facing windows at the opposite end of the room. It lit Draco from behind as he stepped into the library in answer to his father's summons.

Draco walked over to the desk and seated himself in front of it. He and Lucius regarded one another for several moments. It was something they did often, sizing each other up. The silence stretched out into the space of minutes, and the weight and timbre of that silence told Draco that Lucius was clearly displeased with him. That was nothing new. It was often read in the tight curl of his father's lip as he regarded his son.

"Draco," Lucius said, at last acknowledging him.

"Father," he replied.

"Your manners disappoint me."

So that's how it was to be today; the manner subtle, the reprimand protracted but verbal instead of physical. It was clear from the method of approach. Lucius wanted to dally with this business. If Draco sought to hasten the encounter to a close, he would pay dearly for it. He paused a moment, selecting the appropriate reply, one that would allow things to proceed as his father intended.

"My manners need correcting?" he asked drily.

"They are sorely lacking, yes." Lucius offered no additional explanation.

"Is it the picking of my teeth at the dinner table or my penchant for scratching that disappoints you?"

"Don't be glib, Draco, it's unbecoming."

"It was not my intent to be glib, Father. But clearly I'm in need of some guidance if my manners have failed to please you."

Lucius leaned forward, sliding his forearms across the polished wood surface of the desk. It was warm in the library, the air close. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and cuffed them at the elbow. The Dark Mark lay exposed on the underside of his left arm, the inky black skull and serpent on his skin a palpable presence between the two of them

"Yes," Lucius said softly. "There are times when I wonder if you don't take delight in failing me."

"Never, Father." Draco did his best to utter the words earnestly, but he didn't succeed. A hint of bitter sarcasm had crept into his voice. Lucius' eyes narrowed.

"Then you shall remedy the situation with our summer guest."

"Cousin Imogene?"

"I can think of no other."

Draco was silent.

"Don't tell me that you don't find her appealing, Draco. I've seen you watch her, and yet watching is all you do."

Draco's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. "She would be nothing more than a diversion."

"And who are you to refuse a diversion?"

Draco's chin snapped up defiantly, but he held his tongue.

"Listen carefully, boy. It is no mistake that we brought her here. You know this and you know what is expected of you." Lucius leaned back in his chair allowing a moment for his words to sink in. It was hardly necessary. The weight of his words fell on Draco's shoulders causing them to sag underneath the burden. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you take some perverse pleasure in avoiding her. But I do know better, don't I?"

"Yes, Father."

"In fact, I know best."

"Of course, Father."

"You won't fail me again?

"No, Father."

Draco watched Lucius carefully, hoping that the litany was at an end. After a moment, Lucius dismissed him with a brief nod of his head. Draco stood and turned to leave the library.

"See that you know her," Lucius said. "See that you do more than watch."

**OOO**

Hermione touched her wand to the tiny scrap of parchment and murmured the brief spell that reduced the paper to dust. She'd held the parchment a total of 7 seconds, the length of time it took her to read, decode and re-read its message while marveling at the bit of magic which had delivered it into her hands. Communication with the Order had been next to non-existent all summer, but on occasion a slip of parchment would materialize bearing a coded message. The messages were always from Snape, who received information about her progress through a network of spies.

She had no clue as to the identity of the spies—the less she knew the better—but apparently she was being watched at all times. The notion made the tiny hairs of the back of her neck rise up in agitation. Hermione fought down the feeling, however, and turned her thoughts back to the message. It had been concise and curt. She expected nothing less from Snape who was indeed a master of brevity.

_You let the boy put you off. Unacceptable. Better to antagonize than to fear him. Better still to appeal to the darkness in him._

The fine dust of the parchment still coated her fingers. The paper was gone, but the message had imprinted itself on her mind, not unlike the residue which clung to her hands.

The message was a call to action. She had let Draco keep his distance because it was easier than the alternative. She had no desire to close the space between them, even though she knew that to be the very reason for this elaborate magical charade. An entire summer spent losing her identity and it would all be in vain if she continued to let him hold her off. The message had been right. _Unaccpetable_.

Hermione closed her eyes and sat on the bed. She could no longer keep to her room, which had been her sanctuary these past two months. She would have to seek him out and force him to acknowledge her.

There was a muggle saying about catching more flies with honey than vinegar. Hermione had never liked it. It discounted vinegar and its effectiveness. The taste of vinegar remained on the tongue long after the cloying sweetness of honey abated. Its bitter flavor was not easily forgotten and it served just as well as honey to drown a fly.

**OOO**

Draco struggled upward out of sleep. Slowly his senses surfaced. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears; feel the pulse drumming at his temples and at the base of his throat. His heart kicked against his ribs beating a fierce rhythm against his chest. He was sweating, he realized. He hadn't noticed until the air shifted in the room. It skimmed the moisture on his skin leaving a distinct chill in the wake of evaporation. Draco shivered.

He was sitting in bed leaning back on his palms braced flat behind him. There was a sense of urgency responsible for the tension which stiffened his arms and shoulders and tightened his jaw. He didn't understand the urgency. He couldn't remember why, but he was clearly panicked as if he'd woken from a nightmare.

The air moved again, shifting, ceding space to something. A presence.

His wand was in his hand instantly.

"_Lumos_," he whispered, throat dry. The tip of his wand glowed pale against the darkness. It cast the room in shadows. The objects around him assumed curious shapes. They loomed large and ominous for several moments then receded as his eyes adjusted to the wandlight. There was no one. Draco was alone, but the feeling of a presence remained.

Suddenly exhaustion seemed to overtake him. His body felt heavy, leaden. He lost his grip on his wand. The light faded and he heard the wand clatter to the floor. Draco rocked back on his palms fighting the exhaustion, but it was a fight he would lose. The weight set to his hands shifted as his elbows sagged to the mattress. A moment later they slipped out from under him and he was flat on his back, breath slow, eyes barely open.

There was something he was trying to remember. There was someone. He couldn't think any longer. Something brushed his face. His conscious mind released its already tenuous hold on wakefulness and gave way to sleep.

**OOO**

Hermione was gripping the bedpost with her free hand. It was the only thing keeping her on her feet. Her wand was clutched tightly in her other hand, its surface slick from her damp fingers. Her head throbbed. Her nightgown was drenched in sweat. It had been a bad idea. She hadn't conjured the golem all summer; there'd been no need for a double here at the manor. She shouldn't have done it.

She was having trouble remembering why she'd decided to do it in the first place. There was the ostensible reason that she'd sent her double to spy on Draco. Hermione could use the double's ears and eyes, even its fingers to gather information. It carried her consciousness without her physically being present. It had seemed like a fairly low-risk undertaking. If the double were in danger of being caught, she'd simply end the spell causing it to vanish.

But something had gone wrong. She'd seen him stirring through the double's eyes. Hermione let her concentration slip, the surest way to end the spell, but the golem had remained. Even now she felt it drawing on her consciousness despite her efforts to extinguish it. It was still in his room.

It had taken every last ounce of Hermione's strength to cast the sleeping spell. She'd had no idea if it would work. She'd never tried to cast a spell on a person who wasn't standing in front of her. The double would have to be the conduit.

Hermione had watched Draco slip back into sleep. At the same moment her knees had collapsed and she'd grabbed the bedpost to keep herself upright. It had been a bad idea.

Hermione dragged herself onto the bed and lay panting. She'd been arrogant conjuring the golem when it wasn't needed, using it for her own ends. It was hubris and there would be consequences. She was living them right now. Pain tightened around her head and settled behind her eyes. And the double was still in his room.

The worst of it was that she should've known better. What information could she possibly discover while he was sleeping in his room in the dead of night? Certainly nothing that would help the Order. The only information to be gleaned was that which could feed her girlish curiosity about him, a curiosity that had no place under these circumstances.

Snape had warned her that golem spellwork was not to be trifled with. It was complex magic using one's consciousness to feed false information to others. The will created the illusion and the strength of that will convinced others to accept it. It was no mean feat getting others to accept false information on a sensory level.

The ability was not unheard of. A talented charlatan, a snake oil salesman could talk others into believing a lie wielding carefully chosen words. It took a wizard, however, to transmute verbal trickery into corporeal form; to make the word flesh.

Hermione closed her eyes and fought to control her ragged breathing. She was guilty. She'd conjured a walking, talking, breathing lie that she couldn't extirpate. She could only hope that Draco wouldn't wake and find it there. She could only hope that this walking lie would vanish before dawn.


	2. I, Imogene

**Chapter 2: I, Imogene**

Draco tossed an arm over his eyes. The harsh light of morning spilled in through the windows of his room. His ears were filled with a preternatural silence. The manor was never this quiet. It kept up a steady conversation of creaks and groans for those willing to listen. Draco had become so used to the manor and its constant grumbling that he barely noticed it anymore. Part of living there, part of growing up within its walls meant tuning out the chatter. When the chatter was absent, however, the resulting silence rang loudly in his ears.

It was the silence that called everything into question. Maybe he wasn't in fact awake yet. Maybe what he heard, or rather didn't hear, was the silence of sleep. Maybe he was in that particular limbo between sleep and waking where the boundaries blur and anything is possible.

Maybe her hair had touched his face as she knelt over him. Maybe the inky, black strands had trailed over his brows and eyelids, tangling briefly with the pale blond fringe of his lashes. Maybe it had brushed his jaw, danced across his chin. Maybe he'd felt the warmth of her breath against his face and her cold fingers as they'd traced his collar bone.

Draco tensed. For the space of several heartbeats he believed it had been real. It had the depth and texture of an actual memory. He nearly felt it again, her hair on his skin. It raised gooseflesh along his arms.

He shifted and light crept in beneath the forearm thrown across his eyes. The light chastened him, pale orange and splotchy behind his closed lids, shoring up his conviction. It had been a dream; just a dream, nothing more.

His father had talked Imogene into his imagination. She must've been waiting there dormant in his mind until sleep struck and his consciousness sought to draw her forth; just a dream, nothing more.

Draco uncovered his eyes and pushed himself up to sitting. He was groggy. His head throbbed faintly. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before pushing himself out of bed. He paused to raise his eyes to the window, fighting the glare of the raging sunlight. The light won out causing him to shield his eyes with his palm. Draco longed for the dark.

**OOO**

Hermione awoke to pain in her hip. Her neck was stiff. Evidently she'd spent the night on the floor and she had the imprint of the carpet on the left side of her face to prove it. It was odd. The last thing she remembered was dragging herself on to the bed. How she'd found herself on the floor this morning she had no idea.

She pushed herself upright and finally stood, smoothing her wrinkled nightgown. The pain in her head had eased. There was a certain clarity to her thoughts. She tested her focus and knew from her unfettered ability to concentrate that the double had vanished. Exactly when it had happened she couldn't say, but it no longer walked the halls of the manor.

Relief flooded her thoughts. There was still a chance that Draco had seen the double during the night, but at least it was gone now in the light of day. Hermione had learned her lesson. It was one she wouldn't soon forget.

She crossed to the wardrobe to find something to wear and that was when she heard it. Something slapped against the window causing the leaded glass to rattle in the frame. Hermione walked over to investigate. Perhaps a bird had accidentally flown into the glass. She peered out through the window and saw nothing.

As soon as she turned away she heard the sound again. This time she was quick to react. She reached for the latch and threw the window open wide. There on the ledge below was a small pile of ashes. They swirled briefly in gust of air which swept them aloft before they faded and seemed to vanish.

It didn't make sense. She didn't see anything that could've been responsible for the noise. Hermione's thoughts were interrupted, however, when she saw an envelope whistling toward her. She did the only thing she could think to do. She ducked.

The envelope streaked in through the open window with surprising speed. It tore through the room leaving the drapes billowing in its wake and ruffling a sheaf of papers on a small writing desk. It was halfway across the chamber before it slowed its flight. The letter had a great deal of momentum however, and barely managed to skid to a halt.

Hermione got a prickly feeling at the back of her neck. She watched as the envelope hovered in the air for a moment before the paper flapped and buckled folding into a set of jaws that would deliver its message. The envelope had barely cleared its throat, so to speak, before it burst into flame. She saw the charred paper crinkle and collapse as fire consumed it. In a matter of seconds it had been reduced to ash which swirled away into nothingness.

Hermione barely had time to realize that someone had sent her a Howler; one that had been destroyed before the message could be delivered. No sooner had she completed the thought than a flurry of envelopes appeared streaking toward the open window. Hermione dashed to the sill and slammed the window shut. The envelopes plowed into the glass flapping angrily for the space of several moments before they erupted in flame.

Hermione sighed.

Clearly the morning post was out to get her.

**OOO**

Lucius hadn't intended to start his day in such a manner. There was tea spilled down the front of his robes and in his hands were the shattered remains of the latest piece of the Black family wedding china to turn up a casualty in the unofficial Malfoy family war on tableware. Narcissa's lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure as she dabbed rather roughly at the front of Lucius' robes. It was the third demitasse cup she'd lost in as many weeks. The Malfoy men were clumsy in some respects, especially when it came to her tea service. Lucius had no understanding of how lucky she was to be in possession of the family china. Indeed, if Bellatrix hadn't been incarcerated and Andromeda disowned, then Narcissa would have been a distant third in line to the tea service throne.

Lucius sensed her irritation but in truth it wasn't his fault. He couldn't have predicted that an envelope would come flying through the window and upend the cup in his hand before unceremoniously bursting into flame. Narcissa often accused him of abusing the tea things when he was in a temper but this was one of those rare occasions when Lucius Malfoy was indeed innocent.

Narcissa finished wiping his robes with the tea towel. She took the shards of the cup from Lucius and made to turn away but he gently grasped her wrist. Lucius inclined his head toward her.

"Cissy," he said softly. He reached for his wand in order to mend the broken cup. Narcissa stopped him in a way that was simple but effective. She arched one delicate blond brow in warning. Lucius took the hint. He released her wrist and held up his palms in a gesture of acquiescence. Narcissa turned to leave the room. On her way out she passed her son, who stood stiffly by the door. She deftly removed the cup and saucer from Draco's hands before she exited the room. She knew better than to leave the men alone with the tea things.

Draco watched his mother leave, a bit peeved that he hadn't been able to finish his tea. He didn't have time to dwell on the fact, however. His father was waving a charred envelope at him.

"Ministry issue," Lucius said.

"Exploding post? They're taking a new tack," Draco replied.

"It's not the purpose of the letter to explode. This is your standard ministry warning. I would say someone was trying to destroy it before the message could be delivered. If I hadn't managed a counter spell this letter would have disintegrated."

"Why would anyone go through the trouble of blowing up the post?" Draco asked.

"I was hoping you could tell me that, boy." Lucius' voice grew cold. He pointed to the partially melted seal on the back of the envelope. "This seal belongs to the Improper Use of Magic Office."

Before Draco could comment Lucius closed the distance between them and grabbed a fistful of his son's shirt.

"I do not need to draw the attention of the Ministry at this critical time, especially for underage magic."

"You think _I'm_ responsible?" Draco asked.

"I've told you a thousand times to be smart about this, Draco. There are certain places that are cloaked from the Ministry's trace where you're permitted to practice magic, but you know as well as I do that the manor has its vulnerabilities. You can't run about with your wand drawn casting spells willy-nilly." Lucius released the front of his shirt with enough force that it caused Draco to stumble backward.

"I'm well aware of the manor's vulnerabilities," Draco said. He did his best to remain poised, but in truth he was seething with anger. "I would also mention that I'm not the only underage wizard, or should I say witch, within these walls."

**OOO**

"You!"

Hermione bristled as soon as she heard his voice. Clearly he wasn't happy. Well, at least he hadn't called her Cousin Imogene. They were making progress. "You" was much more personal, though he'd succeeded somehow in making it sound like a curse.

She kept walking down the long hall toward the formal dining room. The portraits of the Malfoy ancestors stared down at her with interest as she strode past. The uniformity of their stark faces and pale blond hair made her feel like an outcast. If she hadn't had Imogene to hide behind the weight of her own difference would have threatened to crush her.

Draco was on her within seconds. He grabbed hold of her upper arm and pulled her up short thwarting further progress down the hall. Hermione tensed. The last time she'd been this close to Draco Malfoy she'd punched him square in the face. She fought down the urge to do so now and fixed him with a haughty stare.

"You!" Draco said again.

Hermione nodded.

"Me Imogene. You Draco," she explained slowly. She tapped her chest once and then pointed to him by way of illustration.

"You think I'm _stupid_?" he hissed, the anger threatening to overwhelm him. His fingers tightened on her arm. Hermione winced but refused to give ground. He was dangerously close to doing her harm, but she knew that she could turn the situation to her advantage. After all, the point had been to draw him out and here he was.

Hermione forced herself to relax in his grip.

"I don't know what to think," she said. "You've avoided me the entire summer. For all I know you're a deaf-mute."

"I am most certainly not a deaf-mute," he said, voice rising in anger.

"I know. I can hear you. I'm not a deaf-mute either." She felt his fingers loosen slightly around her arm. "It appears we have something in common."

Draco stared at her a moment. He was still angry, but the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation caught him off guard. His anger ratcheted down a notch.

"We have something else in common," he said, roughly. "We're both suspected of underage magic."

Hermione blanched remembering the morning post.

"My father suspects me and I suspect you."

She turned away from him then, but he jerked her back around to face him his hand still gripping her arm.

"It was clever of you to try to destroy the warnings, but you didn't succeed. Lucius is cunning. Nothing escapes him here at the manor. You'd do well to remember that."

Hermione's thoughts were spinning. Ministry warnings. They must've detected the golem spell. How could she have been so reckless? The warnings had been for her, but she hadn't known to destroy them; hadn't anticipated the consequences. Someone had come to her aid.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said at last. Her voice was hollow and the statement sounded false even to her ears.

"You're a clever girl. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You will also understand when I tell you that you owe me." He took a step closer invading her space. Draco thought to intimidate her.

"I owe you?" she asked skeptically.

"You. Owe. Me. I took a punishment that was rightfully yours." He was crowding her and she took a step back instinctively. When her back touched the wall, her temper flared. She would not be bullied. Hermione pushed him and that simple push revealed more than an entire vial of Veritaserum could have. In the split second when her hand made contact with his chest Draco winced. There was a brief flicker of pain in his eyes, but it vanished almost instantly. He recovered so quickly that she nearly thought she'd imagined it. His stance told her otherwise.

Draco's shoulders were thrust forward slightly almost as if he were about to hunch over. It wasn't by any means an unusual posture, but it was clear to Hermione that he was protecting his chest, drawing it away so that it was less of a target. She studied him a moment and in the uncomfortable silence that ensued she realized that he was wounded. He had taken her punishment.

Before she could prevent it her reaction played across her features. Her eyes softened as she looked at him. The tension left her. Her arm went slack in his fierce grip.

Draco felt the shift and his fingers tightened around her arm. He wanted to hurt her as he'd been hurt. He didn't want her pity. He didn't want her trusting that he wouldn't hurt her. He didn't want her trust. It wasn't merited.

Draco's fingers dug into her flesh. He knew she would cry out sooner or later. But she didn't. Instead her eyes slipped closed.

She didn't need to see him in order to trust him to stop.

And then it happened. Draco dropped her arm almost as if she'd burned him.

"You owe me," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. Abruptly, he turned and disappeared down the hall.

**OOO**

"Up," Lucius said. He was shaking her awake.

Hermione opened her eyes. She'd had this nightmare before; the one where Lucius Malfoy was in her bed shaking her until her teeth rattled. Fear snapped her instantly awake. She scrambled back against the headboard, drawing the sheets up with her for protection.

Now that she was awake Lucius stood. He seemed more annoyed than enraged. Sensing that she was bound to misinterpret his actions he regarded her coolly for a moment.

"You are a _child_, Imogene," he said at last. "That hardly interests me."

Hermione should have been relieved, but she found that her fear remained. It kept a firm grip on her lungs refusing to let her breathe.

"I can't say the same for my son, however, which is why I neglected to send him on this particular errand."

She noticed that Lucius was fully dressed in expensive black robes which hung all the way to the ground. There was a dark cloak draped over his arm.

"Get dressed."

Hermione didn't move. Lucius tossed the cloak at her and walked to the door.

"I'll be waiting in the garden. You have ten minutes."

He closed the door behind him. Hermione simply stared. It was dark outside. The clock on the mantle told her that it was just past two thirty in the morning. Her heart was pounding. No good could come of this. There was absolutely no legitimate reason for Lucius Malfoy to wake her in the middle of the night and expect her in the garden. Something was afoot; something that required secrecy and darkness; something that in all likelihood was not Ministry-approved.

Her hands shook as she climbed out of bed and dressed. She picked up the cloak. It was heavy and voluminous, far too big for someone her size. It certainly wasn't the garment she would have chosen to wear on a warm summer night. Nonetheless, she slipped it on and was surprised at how light the fabric felt once it was fastened around her shoulders.

The cloak seemed to adjust itself to her. It took into account her height and weight. It had even taken into account her concerns about the temperature and adjusted the gauge of the fabric accordingly. Hermione felt that familiar curiosity well up inside her. She couldn't help herself. There was a half empty glass of water on the stand by the bed. She picked up the glass and dumped the water on to her sleeve. The sheen of the fabric changed slightly. Hermione watched the water bead on the cloak's surface and then evaporate. She'd remained completely dry.

It was fascinating but she didn't have time to investigate further. She pulled up her hood, pocketed her wand and turned to leave the room. Hermione caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on her way out. It was then that she noticed cloak's pointed hood. Her step faltered.

She was wearing the cloak of a Death Eater.

**OOO**

"You're late," Lucius announced.

Hermione tucked her hands into the opposite sleeves of the cloak. It was better than keeping them at her sides and allowing them to shake uncontrollably.

"Draco, how late is she?" Lucius asked.

"Eleven seconds." Draco was leaning against a tree several feet from his father. She couldn't see his face. It was hidden by the hood of his robes.

"I apologize for being late. You asked me to meet you in the garden. The manor has a number of gardens and you weren't specific," Hermione said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Ah, but you are a novice, Imogene. I keep forgetting. Draco, you should have made our guest better acquainted with the grounds. It is I who must apologize to you for my son's failings."

Hermione nodded, infinitely wary of a Malfoy bearing an apology.

"Come," Lucius said. He started along a cobbled path which led out of the well-manicured English rose garden with the expectation that they would follow. Lucius's expectations were always met. Tonight was no exception. Hermione watched as Draco stiffly pushed himself from the tree he'd been leaning against and fell into step behind his father. She followed the two of them down the path which, after several twists and turns, led them into the woods surrounding the manor.

Huge, ancient trees closed ranks around them. The once cobbled path became a trail which was overgrown in some places and merely fraught with bracken in others. Lucius easily avoided the roots and vines which leapt up into the path. It was clear that he knew the trail well and his familiarity with his surroundings bred haste. He set a punishing pace through the forest.

Every so often Lucius would turn and glance at them over his shoulder checking their progress. The hood of his cloak would shift and Hermione would catch a brief glimpse of his white blonde hair spilling from beneath the hood. It took on a silvery hue in the moonlight. The strands of hair were the only part of him that caught the light. The rest of him was absorbed in the blackness of his robes.

Draco drew no light at all. He kept his hair short. There was no chance of it leaking from the edges of his hood. It occurred to Hermione that Draco's short hair was purposeful. It was one of the ways that he set himself apart from Lucius. He'd inherited his father's hair but he would keep it in his own way. It was a subtle but effective rebellion, painting Lucius's mane as the vain indulgence of an aging wizard.

The trail began to climb uphill and Hermione realized as she struggled to keep up that they were hiking in earnest. Her feet seemed to find and tangle in every root and branch that fell across the path. There were several times when she had to race to catch up to Draco and Lucius after freeing herself from particularly stubborn brambles.

The night wore on, the moon shifted in the sky and still they walked. Hermione noticed that she was closing the distance between herself and Draco. Either she was getting better at negotiating the treacherous path or Draco was slowing a bit. Another minute or two of walking and she'd be even with him. His pace was slackening.

Hermione glanced ahead to Lucius to determine whether or not he'd slowed. Lucius was in fact drawing away from the two of them. She turned her eyes back to Draco and studied him carefully. His figure was swallowed up in the cloak for the most part but she could see the odd set of his shoulders, the slight hunch.

At last she drew even with him. They walked in step for several strides and then he began to fall behind. Hermione could hear his labored breathing. She stopped and turned to look at him. His face was obscured by his hood and his hands were tucked up in his sleeves. He was hidden from her, and while the cloak hanging from his limbs was designed to conceal, it couldn't disguise the fact that he was in pain.

"Keep moving," he ground out, seeing that she'd stopped.

She did as instructed, her legs moving forward mechanically. Hermione listened to his flagging step behind her. They went on this way for several minutes. She began to turn toward him again.

"Don't," he said.

At his warning Hermione fought the urge to turn. She looked up ahead and saw that Lucius had stopped at the crest of a hill. He was watching the both of them as they approached.

Hermione dropped her head forward so that her hood covered her face. Very quietly she spoke. "Straighten up. Your shoulders give you away."

Draco paused in mid-step but heeded her advice. She heard him draw in a breath and hold it in his lungs as he drew his shoulders back. He released the breath slowly through clenched teeth in a soft hiss of pain.

When they reached Lucius at the top of the hill Draco stood ramrod straight, his breathing calm. Hermione wondered what this act must cost him; clearly less than what it would cost to have his father see him faltering.

Hermione looked out over the dense forest behind them calculating the distance they'd traveled. To her shock the manor was still visible and it appeared relatively close to their current location. Given the amount of time they'd spent walking they should've covered more ground.

Hermione's eyes turned to Lucius. It occurred to her that he'd been leading them in circles. Their current location was less than an hour's walk from the manor but they'd spent nearly twice that time on the trail. A part of her wondered if the walk itself hadn't been some sort of test of endurance.

Her thoughts were interrupted however, by faint noise filtering through the copse of trees which lined the crest of the hill. Lucius led them through the trees and the noise became more intense. It crystallized into identifiable sound, the sound of screams.

The hill overlooked a valley below. The valley was a patchwork of fields dotted with modest cottages. All of them were on fire. Black robed figures moved between the burning structures chasing Muggles at wandpoint. Jets of colored light flashed through the dark night. Bodies dropped, lifeless.

Hermione pulled herself as far into her cloak as she possibly could. She let her hood fall forward and squeezed her eyes shut. Panic welled up inside her. It was the dead of night and she was witness to murder. She heard Lucius's voice as if it were coming from far away. It was difficult to hear over the roar of the blood pounding in her ears.

"One thing you will learn. There are a good deal of superfluous people in the world. It falls to you to eliminate such redundancy."

Without a word, Draco drew his wand and walked down the slope into the fray.

Hermione's eyes blinked open. Lucius was staring at her, his hood tossed back revealing his face.

"What is it you're made of Imogene?" His voice was pitched low but she heard every single word.

The answer rose unbidden to her throat. Polyjuice. She choked it down. It wasn't the answer Lucius was looking for. It wasn't the answer that would allow her to continue to draw breath.

Her feet began to move. She was running down the slope with her wand drawn, stumbling and sliding. As soon as she reached the valley floor all was chaos and confusion. A wave of heat from the burning cottages reared up causing Hermione to stagger back a step. She'd moved in too close to one of the houses. The charred frame of the cottage lay exposed as flame consumed the outer structure leaving a scorched skeleton in its wake.

Out of the corner of her eye Hermione saw several Muggles dash from behind one of the cottages. They ran full tilt toward a wall of trees skirting the edge of the valley, clearly looking for cover. There had to be a way to help them without drawing the attention of Lucius and the other Death Eaters. Hermione shadowed the Muggles, keeping an eye on them until they reached the relative safety of the trees. Once there they had at least a fighting chance of staying hidden. Perhaps there was a way for her to herd the other Muggles in that direction.

Hermione heard footsteps pass close behind her. She whirled to see a Muggle woman and a young girl scurry past her using the thick smoke from the multiple fires as cover. Hermione gave chase casting a poorly aimed jelly-legs jinx. It missed them by a mile as she had intended and had the added effect of steering them toward the trees. As long as she kept up the appearance of pursuit the woman and her daughter might have a chance at escape. It was a good thing Hermione knew a little something about keeping up appearances.

What she hadn't anticipated was the anger. Just before the young girl and her mother disappeared into the trees, the girl turned and threw a rock at her. It caught her in the shoulder and spun her around stinging wickedly. Of course they Muggles were angry. They were being hunted for their lives.

There was a commotion coming from the opposite edge of the field. Hermione squinted through the darkness. Dark robed figures streaked across the landscape and there seemed to be a sudden increase in the number of spells being cast. Jets of red and green light shot through the air.

Hermione circled to get a closer look. Aurors. Ministry aurors had arrived on the scene. Relief washed over her but it was short-lived as a powerful spell streaked in her direction. Hermione ducked narrowly avoiding injury. Aurors were dangerous when you were wearing enemy colors.

A dark figure in a pointed hood cut across the field running toward her. Hermione tensed and gripped her wand. She had to remind herself that the sight of a Death Eater approaching wasn't cause for alarm in her present circumstances. The sight of a Death Eater approaching meant the arrival of a possible ally. That thought made her stomach churn. It went against every fiber of her being. It was just one of the many complications of being Imogene.

As the figure drew closer she noticed the stiff set of his shoulders. It was Draco. He reached her within seconds.

"Aurors," he said, as he grabbed her arm. No sooner had he reached her than several spells arced toward them. Hermione's cloak flared out of its own accord. She felt the fabric billow around her as she and Draco ran toward the trees for cover. It took Hermione a moment to realize that the cloak was deliberately flaring out in order to misdirect the spells being aimed at her. The fabric danced to protect her sensitive to her fears.

Draco reached the trees at last pulling Hermione behind him into the thicket. Her robes snagged on the low brush as they entered the woods slowing Hermione just enough so that she had time to cast one last glance over her shoulder. All but one spell remained to chase them, the others having missed their mark. The final spell was impossibly close. She barely had the shield charm in place when the spell collided with it, its impact driving Hermione backwards into Draco.

The two of them stumbled in a tangle of wands and robes. The only thing solid enough to stop their momentum was a large tree which Draco met with his back. Hermione heard the impact and felt herself come up short against him, her elbows digging into his chest and stomach. The eerie silence that followed was almost as frightening as the spell they'd just narrowly evaded.

Hermione straightened and stepped away from him. She turned to look at Draco. He leaned back against the tree, hood covering his face. He wasn't making a single sound. The silence burned her ears.

Draco's legs folded. He slid down the trunk and slumped over on to the ground. Hermione pushed her hood back and knelt beside him. She carefully rolled him over on to his back and pushed the hood from his face. Her suspicions were confirmed. He was unconscious. And he looked bloody awful.

His hair was matted to his forehead with sweat and he was even paler than usual, bloodless. Dark hallows stood out beneath his closed lids. His breath was shallow, but steady.

Hermione's hands were shaking as she bent forward to inspect the damage. She opened the front of his cloak and felt the shirt beneath. It was damp but whether from blood or sweat she couldn't be sure. It was too dark. She lit her wand and stuck it point up in the ground beside her.

The faint light revealed the buttons on his shirt. With unsteady fingers she unfastened them. She'd only just begun the task when the fabric gaped to expose the bruised and damaged skin beneath. The dark discoloration began just below his collar bone and continued toward his navel.

She knew that he was hurt, but she'd had no idea how badly. She ran her fingers gently along his collar bone and let them slip down over his sternum. His flesh was swollen and distended. Welts rose across his ribs and his entire left side was a bruised mass of damaged muscle. Blood seeped beneath the skin in filmy blisters just below his heart.

Hermione closed her eyes, her hand resting against his ribs. She couldn't look at his injuries any longer. They threatened to upend her stomach. They'd already succeeded in catching the breath in her throat.

There was movement. He was squeezing her fingers, crushing them where they sat resting against his ribs. Hermione opened her eyes to see Draco staring up at her, suddenly conscious. It took him a moment to make sound, breath and pain mingling in his throat in one ragged exhalation.

"You," he said.

Hermione leaned forward. Imogene's dark hair fell over him, the ends brushing his bruised flesh. Relief flooded her.

"Me Imogene," she said softly.

"You," he said again. His eyes were clouded with pain. She wasn't entirely sure how coherent he was, especially when he reached up to take several strands of her hair between his fingers. "You were in my room."

Hermione blanched. He was more coherent than he had any right to be.

"You're injured," she said, changing the subject. "We have to get you to Lucius, tell him that you're hurt."

"He knows," Draco said.

"He'll know how to heal you."

"He'll heal me when he sees fit." His eyes caught hers and stopped the protest rising in his throat. Lucius knew. Of course Lucius knew.

Hermione freed her hand from the grip of his fingers and plucked her wand from the ground. That was when he saw it, the look of utter determination on her face. It was pure, undiluted will. He'd seen that look before. It was as familiar to him as the taste of pumpkin juice. It was the last thing he remembered before he blacked out.


	3. The Changeling Girl

**Chapter 3: The Changeling Girl**

Severus Snape had always found Malfoy Manor to be unflinchingly garish. It somehow managed to encapsulate all of the ostentatious and vulgar elements of wizardry and distill them into one sprawling architectural eyesore. It knew nothing of modesty. From the frippery of the albino peacocks roaming the grounds to that damnable business with the talking gate, the manor lacked all manner of subtlety and taste.

The left corner of Snape's mouth tucked up slightly in a display that was neither smirk nor grimace but something decidedly in between. He supposed that the residence was a reflection of its owner: showy, vainglorious and given to the kind of melodrama found in the pages of cut-rate hacks such as Beedle the Bard.

Snape stood in the entry hall with his hands folded patiently in front of him. He'd been hoping to collect his charge in a reasonable amount of time so as to return to Spinner's End before nightfall. He'd left a potion brewing and while it was true indeed that a watched pot never boils, he didn't care to have his unwatched pot boil over in his absence.

A door opened and closed somewhere not too far off from where Snape stood. The sound was followed by the rhythmic tap of high-heeled shoes clacking against the stone flooring present throughout much of the manor. Within moments Narcissa appeared in the entry hall.

He'd been only partly right in supposing that the sound had been made by high-heeled shoes. She wore boots, cordovan in color, whose pointed heels struck the floor in a clipped staccato. The boots were the same rich color as her simple dress; the neck a pleasing V; waist belted in black dragon-hide; the skirt straight with a hem that barely kissed her knee.

Narcissa was a fine-looking woman, always had been. She wore things well, as if that were her purpose in life. An elegant clothes-hanger, it only made sense that Lucius had chosen her for his bride. She made poetic sense against the backdrop of the manor, and seeing her here only solidified the impression that she was perhaps the most beautiful trophy in what Lucius fancied to be his collection of rare and refined things.

"Severus," she said lightly.

"Narcissa."

"Imogene will be with you in a moment. Do say hello to her parents for us. She's been a lovely guest."

Snape nodded. He noticed that Narcissa's hands were shaking which was unexpected given her pleasant smile and the honeyed tone of her voice. She took a step closer to him and the chink in her façade became visible. Quiet desperation bled through her eyes.

"You won't forget," she said.

"I can't forget," Snape replied drily. "Duty forbids it as well as my desire to continue on in this existence."

Narcissa blinked quickly, banishing potential tears. She reached toward him. Snape took a step back in mild surprise, but still she succeeded in grasping his hand. What other promises did this woman think to extract from him? He had precious little left to give.

It seemed as if she would shake hands with him, reinforcing their tacit agreement. So it was an unwelcome shock when she ducked her head, brought his upturned hand to her lips and kissed his palm gently.

Narcissa dropped his hand and turned away. She walked back down the hall encountering Imogene on her way.

"Goodbye, dear," she said, giving Imogene a quick kiss on the cheek. "And thank you."

Hermione shrugged Imogene's shoulders and said a polite goodbye to Mrs. Malfoy before continuing toward the entry to meet Snape.

She never thought she'd ever be relieved to see Severus Snape, but after having survived an entire summer among the Malfoys he was a relative sight for sore eyes. Said sight was wiping his hand on his robes as she approached, an expression of mild disgust playing across his features.

"Professor," she greeted him.

"Miss LeCoeur."

"Thank you for coming to collect me."

"The Malfoys have arranged to forward your belongings this evening. I'm told your parents are eager to see you. If there's nothing else we'll depart."

Hermione took one last look down the empty hallway.

"There's nothing else," she said softly.

Snape's dark robes swirled behind him as he turned toward the huge entrance doors. The doors creaked open, anticipating his departure. He crossed the threshold with Hermione in tow. They walked down the drive to the wrought-iron gates which allowed them to pass through quite easily as if they were smoke.

Once outside the gates Snape stopped and handed her a cloak. Hermione took it and held it in her arms. It was a warm afternoon and she had no need of an outer garment.

"Put it on," Snape said.

"I don't need it," Hermione replied.

"When was your last dose?"

Hermione thought a moment. "Yesterday evening."

"Put on the cloak."

Hermione didn't argue further. Snape was right. The polyjuice would begin to wear off soon. She shrugged into the garment and pulled the hood over her head.

Next Snape held up a copy of the _Quibbler_.

"Summer reading?" Hermione asked puzzled.

"Hardly. It is a portkey, Miss LeCoeur." With that Snape tossed her the magazine. She caught it and felt the familiar pull behind her navel as she was whisked away from Malfoy Manor.

**OOO**

Hermione stood in the middle of the dark, dusty sitting room. Its walls were lined with books which were somewhat comforting, but even friends of the spined and leather-bound variety did little to ease her trepidation at having been delivered by portkey to a location that she didn't recognize.

Just as a sense of panic was beginning to close off her throat, Snape appeared, having apparated with next to no sound at all. At his arrival the lamps in the room flared to life and a fire struck up in the fireplace of its own accord. Snape shrugged out of his cloak and with the merest flick of his wand sent it floating over to an ancient wooden coat rack by the door which neither one of them had used.

It occurred to Hermione that this was Snape's home. She'd never thought of him as having anything as prosaic as a home. She had always assumed that he lived in the dungeons of Hogwarts and most likely slept standing up without any need for pedestrian objects such as a bed or a chair or even a house.

Hermione drifted over to the rows of books lining the walls. She reached up to run her fingers over several of the titles.

"Do not touch those," Snape said.

There was no question that this was indeed his home. Having proven her theory Hermione backed away from the books.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Spinner's End," he replied. It appeared to be all the answer that she was going to get.

"I thought you were going to take me to my parents."

"What I said is that your parents were eager to see you. I did not say that I would take you to them. Your parents are in hiding for their own protection as you well know. They believe that you have spent the summer at the Weasley residence. I am to deliver you to platform 9 ¾ tomorrow morning."

" So, I'm to spend the night…here?"

"It wasn't my choice, but I can't very well deliver you in your current state." Snape made a small gesture with his wand and a dusty hand mirror drifted out of a drawer and came to hover in front of her. Hermione wiped the mirror with the sleeve of her cloak clearing away a thick layer of grime. It was clear that Snape never used the mirror for anything and she couldn't blame him. If she'd had to spend her days walking around with his hair and wardrobe, she'd rather not come into contact with her reflection. As it was, at least Imogene was somewhat attractive or so she'd been told.

Hermione pushed back her hood and peered into the glass. The sight that met her eyes would have been funny if it had been someone else's reflection. No such luck. It was her own. She was the changeling girl in the mirror with one black eye and one brown. One thin, dark brow had lost its twin, and found a thicker, lighter partner. The straight black strands of Imogene's hair began to twist and curl, writhing into a more familiar texture and shade.

Hermione turned away from the glass and Snape returned the mirror to the drawer. She didn't want to see anymore. She would be happy to have her old face back.

She stood in the middle of the sitting room unsure of what to do with herself. Snape had opened a door that she hadn't noticed before and was preparing to mount a staircase.

"Professor, where should I stay?"

Snape stared at her as if the answer were obvious.

"Here," he said.

"I mean, is there some place for me to sleep?" The way he looked at her she thought that her theory about his sleeping standing up might actually turn out to be true.

"Other than the cupboard?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. His eyes drifted slowly to a large cabinet under one of the bookshelves. Hermione blanched. "There is a guest room, Miss…," he studied her a moment in order to select the most accurate reply, "Granger. It is at the top of these stairs to the right. Now, if there's nothing else I have a potion brewing."

"There is one thing. If it's not too much trouble, I was wondering if I might fix myself a cup of tea."

"It is not time for tea yet. We shall take it at the usual hour," he snapped. Snape stepped on to the first stair and Hermione watched as the subsequent stairs tumbled from the air transforming an ascending staircase into a descending one. Snape walked down the steps, his head sinking as he moved out of sight.

**OOO**

The guest room had turned out to be just as dusty as the sitting room. When she sat down on the bed dust rose from the sheets in a thick cloud causing her to sneeze. It appeared that Snape didn't have many guests. From the looks of it this room hadn't seen a body in at least a hundred years. The furnishings were ancient. There was a single lantern on a clumsy wooden table by the narrow bed, a three-legged stool and a small chest of drawers all covered in a layer of grime that appeared to have taken decades to accumulate.

Hermione whipped out her wand, a cleaning spell on the tip of her tongue. Then she remembered the Ministry Howlers and thought better of it. She'd performed enough underage magic for one summer and if Draco hadn't taken her punishment, she would've suffered for it.

Hermione shook her head to clear her thoughts. She heard movement downstairs and wondered if it were tea time yet. She'd puttered around the tiny guest room for a while and lost all track of time.

She walked out into the upstairs hall and descended the stairs to the sitting room. The staircase hadn't shifted at all for her so she assumed that it was charmed to respond only to Snape.

The sounds she'd heard were coming from another room, but she was hard pressed to determine where that room was located since there were only two doors in the sitting room, one which lead outside and another which led to the duplicitous staircase. She heard a kettle boiling, followed by the clattering of dishes. Within moments a tray carrying a tea kettle, two rough-hewn stone cups, saucers, and assorted other tea things soared out into the sitting room through the staircase door. The tray settled on a low table between two threadbare armchairs.

Taking her cue from the tea set, Hermione dropped into one of the chairs, doing her best not to lean back against the dingy antimacassar which lay over the chair back. The tea kettle steamed impatiently. Several minutes went by and still there was no sign of Snape. The kettle's lid trembled in frustration. It puffed three jets of steam through its spout, each accompanied by an annoyed whistle. At this Hermione heard footsteps at last and Snape emerged from the lower level of the house, the stairs having shifted once again to lead him to the sitting room.

He stalked toward the vacant armchair and Hermione couldn't help but stare. He looked positively sloppy. His robes were gone. He wore a pale shirt with rumpled sleeves pushed clear up to his elbows. The collar was unfastened and wrinkled as if it hadn't been properly starched. His shirttails had come clear of his trousers which oddly enough reminded her of Ron. He was always un-tucked, especially after a last minute sprint to class. Sweat beaded across Snape's brow and his hair lay damp and stringy around his face.

He caught her staring and Hermione could only guess that he'd experienced the same sense of impropriety that she had, for he quickly summoned his cloak from the coat rack and settled into it. He took the empty armchair as the kettle huffed indignantly.

"Forgive me," he muttered drily, and Hermione knew that he wasn't talking to her. The kettle proceeded to pour two cups of tea. The creamer and sugar cubes hovered in front of Hermione prompting her to dress her tea.

"May I ask—?"

"—you may not," Snape said, cutting her off. He eyed the plate of tea sandwiches on the tray and it rose in front of him. He made a selection and sent the plate over to Hermione. She picked out a sandwich, turkey curry she guessed, and the plate returned to the tray. "You will not ask questions. You will merely answer them. Truthfully."

Hermione stiffened. The tone of Snape's voice was not pleasant. There was tea but there would be no sympathy. She took a deep breath.

"Where would you like to begin?" she asked.

"Apparently with a reminder that _you_ are not asking the questions." Snape let that sink in as he took a sip of his tea. "There was a day about a fortnight ago when my studies were interrupted by rather inconvenient post from the Ministry. I spent the entire morning tracking and destroying warnings from the Improper Use of Magic Office."

Hermione sipped her tea, partially hiding her face behind the heavy stone cup.

"The warnings were suitably vague given the complications of the polyjuice and the manor's cloaking ability, but dangerous nonetheless. They may have prompted Lucius to subject your wand to _Prior Incantato_ or hadn't you considered that?"

Hermione waited, assuming that this particular question was rhetorical. Snape's face was impassive but the annoyance in his voice was clear. "What was it you cast that pricked Mafalda Hopkirk to action?"

"You mean your spies didn't tell you?" Hermione was taking a risk answering him like that, but she couldn't help but bristle at his treatment of her. They were supposed to be allies, both working for the Order. There was no need to interrogate her in such a manner as if she were indeed one of the Death Eaters she'd been sent to gather intelligence about. Her assignment required that she masquerade as a pureblood witch with a curiosity about and perhaps even sympathy for the Dark Lord. But that was merely a convenient fiction. Snape should know personally about such fictions and their uses. He needn't turn his disgust on her.

"Miss Granger, I believe you have asked yet another question."

"I'm known for my curiosity," she answered coolly.

"I will give you another opportunity to answer my question and remind you that I am a skilled Leglimens as I'm sure your friend Mr. Potter has informed you. If you do not answer me I will simply sift your memories." He stared at her, eerie and unmoving. "What did you cast?"

He was threatening her and her temper broke. They would never be allies. "I don't recall," she said stiffly.

"You have chosen unwisely."

Hermione braced herself for the incantation. She'd read a great deal about both Leglimency and Occlumency with Harry having divulged as much as he could regarding his own attempts at the latter. If she could compartmentalize her memories, lead him through a maze of distractions, she could ward him off, perhaps even bury him in the mundane and girlish minutiae of her daily existence. Hermione realized however, that as she was formulating her strategy he had already begun. She'd only managed to distract herself while he had gone in through the backdoor of her subconscious and headed straight for those thoughts that her conscious mind sought hardest to suppress. Snape was brilliant. He was also ruthless.

Her fingers dug into the threadbare fabric of the armchair, nails dragging on the surface as she fought to defend herself. A quick glance at him revealed that his eyes had slipped closed and though his lids obscured his eyes, their rapid movement was visible beneath the surface of the skin. His breath came shallow and quick. His thin lips hitched slightly to the left, the faintest whisper of a smirk.

Too late she realized her error. The memory that she sought to withhold, the answer to his question, was well protected. Relative to her other thoughts it was too well protected. She imagined her mind as a house full of halls lined with locked doors that guarded her memories. Some doors were easy to reach; some were only accessible through dark, labyrinthine corridors. Some had simple key locks; others sturdy padlocks. There was one door at the end of a particularly dark and twisting hall however, which stood out from the rest due to the sheer number of locks and protections that it bore. In this way it stood forth like a beacon, telling Snape exactly where to go and how to get there.

He was kicking the doors in one by one as he made his way down the hall. It wasn't necessary. He knew they weren't the memories he sought, but he also knew that she was unprepared and that it would weaken her. The doors buckled and memories escaped floating to the front of her consciousness at a dizzying, sickening pace. It was too much information for her to process at once.

Hermione began to feel nauseous. She felt her control slipping. He'd reached the end of the hall and the heavily locked door stood before him. She winced in anticipation of what was to come. He would break down the door, throwing himself against it again and again until it gave. It was a terrible shock then when he drew up short and simply knocked on the door. The locks dissolved and the door opened of its own accord, no force necessary. It was in this way that Hermione learned she had surrendered.

The memory rushed forth as easily as if it had been stored in a Pensieve for the purpose of examination. And just as easily she found herself tumbling back into it.

_The golem materializes inside of Draco's room. She wears nothing but a simple white shift; the material thin, filmy, uncomplicated. Her eyes are of little use until they adjust to the absence of light. She uses her other senses to explore. She listens to the quiet of the room. It is thick, nearly impenetrable save for the soft sound of his breathing. The rhythm of his breath keeps time for her as she moves silently on bare feet. Her toes creep through the plush carpet which lines the ancient stone floor. Her hands trace the walls, the furniture, the window panes discerning the shape of things._

_His breathing shifts. He wakes. She makes herself a shadow. He does not see her. In the end he returns to sleep. _

_She is curious about him, but begins to fade. She does not want to leave. She wants to know. She will not leave. She will not leave until she understands._

_Her eyes adjust. They see him clearly. She walks to the bed, climbs, sits, settles herself above him. Her fingers reach out. They tangle in his hair. It is short, soft, in spikes. The ends prick her fingers gently. It is pale, his hair. In the absence of light, it seems to have almost no color at all._

_Her fingers move to his face. They skim his eyebrows and circle lower testing the fringe of his lashes. He stirs but does not wake. She does not stop. She smoothes the underside of his jaw. The skin there is different, rough with what remains of the hair shaved close to his skin. It is a fine jaw, angular and fraught with texture which rasps against her fingertips._

_Hermione is in her room, her fingers alive with the feel of him. She calls the golem but it ignores her. She cannot close off the link between them. The golem is a conduit. It transmits. Hermione receives. She absorbs the texture of his skin. _

_Her cold fingers trace his collar bone. He is bare beneath the thin sheet which separates them. Her hands curl in the sheet and draw it down. She sits back across his hips and rucks the sheet low past his navel. _

_She leans forward, her hair brushing his skin. Her hands meet at his breastbone and spread across his chest. There is muscle beneath her palms, lean and sinewy. Her fingers find a pale, flat nipple. She runs her palm over it and he stirs again, his torso rising instinctively to meet her palms. He does not wake._

_Her hands rise, palms lifting so that only her fingers remain in contact with his skin. She curls her fingers so that her nails find his flesh. She drags them down his chest and past the tight ridge of muscle over his stomach. The skin there is taut. It shifts with his slow breath. He makes a sound. It is low, closed in his throat. She closes her eyes._

_Her eyes open. His flesh beneath her hand is damaged and bruised. She grips her wand tightly in her free hand but is unable to move. There is a wand point pressed painfully into the base of her skull. She is in the forest kneeling beside Draco. He is unconscious on the ground. There is a voice._

"_I'll thank you not to heal him." It's Lucius. He's found them in the woods. In the distance the raid continues. She can hear the sounds of it through the screen of the trees. Hermione acquiesces. She tucks her wand into the folds of her cloak._

_Lucius moves. He withdraws his wand from the back of her head. The threat is less but still present. Lucius kneels beside her and grabs her wrist. He grabs Draco's arm with his free hand and disapparates pulling them both through space._

_They apparate at the manor. Lucius flicks his wand and Draco's unconscious body rises into the air. He takes his son to his room. Hermione follows. At the threshold of Draco's room she catches a mere glimpse of him; the boy unconscious on his bed, his father standing over him. Lucius lifts a hand, palm held up facing her. The gesture is simple but the consequence is not. The door slams shut in her face._

_She sits with Narcissa in the drawing room. She has not seen Draco for three days. He has fallen ill they say. He won't see anyone. Hermione is well acquainted with his "illness." It is a chronic condition and it is called Lucius. Narcissa frets. Her eyes are red-rimmed as she sits across from Hermione._

_Hermione knows what Narcissa will not allow herself to know. A lesson is being taught. A lesson in suffering. Lucius is a stern teacher. He would walk his wounded son through the woods in circles to test his strength and provide him an opportunity to murder. He is an uncommon father filled with common hate._

_Hermione has tried to enter his room but it is sealed. It is complex magic which keeps it so. It is Lucius's will. Lucius is formidable, but there is one thing that even his power cannot trump._

_Hermione sits across from Narcissa in the drawing room. She sets down her cup and saucer. She meets the woman's eyes. Hermione rises and leaves the room. It is not until she mounts the stairs that she hears Narcissa behind her. She is following at a distance but she follows nonetheless._

_She leads Narcissa to his door. She tries the handle knowing that it won't turn. Narcissa sees but says nothing. She approaches her son's door. Hermione backs away, melts into the distance. She stops in an alcove to observe._

_Narcissa draws her wand. She does not use it. She sets it apart from her on the floor. Her shoulders hitch and Hermione realizes that the woman is crying softly. She rests her blond head against the door and the sound of a sob escapes her. At the sound light stabs through the frame of the door illuminating its outline._

_Hermione blinks wondering if she has imagined it. She hasn't. The door falls open with a soft click. Narcissa dashes the tears from her eyes. She touches a hand to the door and steps inside._

_As it was with Lily Potter it is with Narcissa Malfoy. She is a common mother filled with a mother's uncommon love._

**OOO**

Snape was slamming doors shut, retreating from her mind. A sense of quiet and order settled over her consciousness. At last he withdrew leaving her shaking and balled up in the armchair. He was sweating, but seemed to have regained control of his breathing. All in all he was none the worse for wear.

Hermione, on the other hand, slouched over the arm of the chair and heaved the contents of her stomach onto the floor.

**OOO**

It was late when Hermione stumbled shivering into the guest room. There was a soft glow coming from the hurricane lantern by the bed when she entered. The light was by no means brilliant, but it was bright enough to reveal that the room had undergone a palpable change. The layer of grime, so conspicuous earlier, had been removed. There were clean sheets on the bed and in the corner a washstand had been added. It bore a bowl of warm water and a soft face cloth. Her things were nowhere to be found, but on the bed was a simple white shift; thin, filmy, uncomplicated.

Hermione hunched over the washstand and splashed water on her face. Her head ached. Her eyes ached. The space behind her eyes ached. She wiped the cloth across her face and looked into the mirror. There was a mild sense of shock. So this was her face. She hadn't seen it for months. She shouldn't have been shocked by the face she'd been born with, but she realized that she'd grown very used to looking in the mirror and seeing anything but what she expected.

Hermione had the unsettling suspicion that her face had somehow changed, but she couldn't be sure. Maybe it was just unfamiliar. Maybe she was unfamiliar to herself; this girl who had worn a Death Eater's cloak and spent a summer among purebloods; this changeling girl.

**OOO**

Thanks to those of you who have taken the time to review so far. I always appreciate the feedback so keep those reviews coming!


	4. Shades of Grey

**Chapter 4: Shades of Grey**

Platform 9 ¾. It was the same every year, still hidden behind a seemingly impenetrable brick wall, still crowded with parents and anxious students eager to board the scarlet locomotive which huffed and puffed and belched great gouts of steam, as impatient an iron horse as ever there was.

Hermione worked her way through the crowded platform toward the passenger cars. There was no one to see her off. Snape had unceremoniously deposited her within walking distance of King's Cross station and promptly vanished without so much as a by-your-leave. He'd said precious little to her all morning and had barely referenced the memories he'd so unscrupulously rifled through the previous evening. It was true that Snape could hardly be characterized as particularly warm or inviting, but he usually managed to muster a borderline civility which stopped just shy of open hostility. His stolid silence this morning had done nothing to calm her frayed nerves, if anything it left her with a deep-seeded sense of foreboding.

The familiarity of the Hogwarts Express was reassuring, however. There may be a Dark Lord lurking about with murderous intent, but some things thankfully never changed. Hermione boarded the train with a sense of relief. She could be herself again, at least for this particular trip. The trick was to remember how to be herself. The trick was to find herself again.

Hermione angled through the hallway, dodging students, nodding to acquaintances until she found the compartment she'd been looking for. She cracked the door and peered inside to see Harry and Ron sitting across from each other, their heads bent forward as they whispered conspiratorially. Both boys held a handful of cards. Ron waved a dog-eared Dexter Fortescue card smudged with chocolate. He was apparently pressing Harry for a trade, but Harry shook his head no. He wasn't some fledgling first year to be suckered into a bad trade. Fortescue was worth next to nothing in that condition and he told Ron so. Ron muttered under his breath. Hermione could barely hear the exchange but one of the words that leapt up within range of her hearing rang loud and clear in the compartment: wanker.

Hermione cleared her throat and both boys quickly shoved the cards into their pockets. They looked rather sheepish and she suspected it had something to do with the fact that they thought themselves entirely too old to be caught trading chocolate frog cards. Hermione stifled a grin as both Ron and Harry jumped to their feet.

"Hermione!" Ron said. He opened his arms to hug her, but suddenly doubted himself. As she stepped toward him he thrust a hand out at her instead, intending for them to shake. Hermione came up short, thoroughly confused by the proffered hand. She'd been away from her friends all summer and she was determined to hug someone. She pivoted on her heel and hugged Harry, still perplexed and now rather angry about the proposed handshake. Ron glowered at Harry over Hermione's shoulder. Harry raised his eyebrows and would've shrugged as well if he hadn't had Hermione in his arms. "Sorry, mate," he was thinking, but then he realized that he wasn't sorry at all. There were worse things a bloke could do than hug Hermione Granger.

Ron tucked his extended hand back into his pocket and flopped down on to the seat. Hermione let go of Harry and sat down next to Ron, though she refused to look directly at him still miffed about the handshake. Why did it always have to be so complicated with Ron?

"Welcome back, Hermione," Harry said. He settled on the seat across from her.

"Yeah," Ron mumbled grudgingly. He had clearly decided to sulk. Harry stepped into the breach.

"We got your letters. Sounds like you had a great summer."

"Yes," Hermione answered shortly, wondering just what they knew about her summer and more importantly who was responsible for the letters that they'd received. She'd been completely cut off from the outside world at the manor. Communication had been much too risky. Someone must have supplied the letters. If she had to wager a guess she'd put her galleons on Snape. For a brief moment she imagined her letters as written by the Potions Master.

_Dear Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley,_

_I am certain that you have allowed what little intelligence you may have gleaned during the course of the school term to atrophy over the summer months. I, however, have been reading steadily and plan to thoroughly irritate my professors with an unfounded sense of authority built upon my irksome bookishness. The weather here is fine. I have not gone swimming._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Jean Granger_

Hermione shook off that thought and shifted the conversation to Ron, asking after his family. It took a few moments, but Ron finally came out of his sulk and began talking easily about the goings-on at the Burrow. Hermione listened, relieved that the Weasleys were well. It was comforting to hear about the summer exploits of Fred and George, Arthur's latest Muggle contraption, and Molly's futile attempt to teach Ginny how to knit using her wand so that she could ensnare her daughter in the fine tradition of knitting the family Christmas sweaters.

As Ron spoke, Hermione let her eyes stray over to Harry. She'd been especially concerned about him given the confrontation with Voldemort at the Ministry and the death of Sirius. She studied Harry carefully, not altogether pleased with what she saw. He looked absolutely exhausted. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes and when he managed to smile it was a slow, creaking process which never quite reached his eyes. There was something hollow about Harry, as if his center were missing. He was all surface, all smoke and mirrors. She was afraid to look past the veneer that he'd provided for them for fear she'd find him empty.

Ron seemed to sense the change in Harry and she noticed that he tried to keep his best mate busy whether it was talking Quidditch or trading chocolate frog cards. She had to give Ron credit, he might be emotionally clumsy at times, but one couldn't ask for a better or more loyal friend.

Her loyal friend was elbowing her in the side gently. She turned to look at him.

"And you," he said, "I suppose you've already memorized the entire _Standard Book of Spells Grade 6_."

"No," she said, before realizing how odd that must sound coming from her. She hadn't been able to read this summer as she normally would have. Reading was a tell-tale indication of Hermione Granger which consequently put the carefully crafted identity of Imogene LeCoeur at risk. "No," she said again, "I was busy."

"Busy?" Ron asked. "Busy with what? Like with people?"

Hermione shrugged.

"No, I just… didn't read it."

"Where is Hermione Granger and what have you done with her?"

Hermione felt her breath catch. He couldn't know how much that question hurt her. He couldn't know that she'd been asking herself that very same question ever since the polyjuice had worn off.

"It's just a textbook, Ron," she snapped.

"Just a textbook? _Just a textbook?_ I dunno about you Hermione, but I happen to love textbooks. I mean, I'm a growing boy and all I think about are textbooks. Don't you think about textbooks, Harry?"

"All the time," Harry said drily.

"I mean, I go to bed at night and I dream about textbooks. And sometimes girls. And sometimes girls reading textbooks. No wait; it's mostly textbooks I dream about."

"Shut up, Ron," Hermione said. She found she couldn't stay angry with him, however. Telling him to shut up helped to restore what she felt had become a tenuous connection to her old self.

Ron obeyed, slipping into silence beside her. A small smile played across his lips. He wouldn't admit it, but there was nothing he wanted more than to sit beside her as the train rocked gently causing her knee to brush his every so often.

The three of them settled into a comfortable silence, listening to the clacking of the train along its track and catching snatches of conversation from neighboring compartments. Hermione was finally beginning to relax the tension that had kept her strung taut the entire summer. She felt the pitch of her anxiety drop. It bled from her, leaving in its place a low, thrumming contentment which softened her features.

So it was especially jarring when the door to the compartment clicked open and Draco Malfoy leaned against the doorframe. Ron sat straight up, hackles rising immediately. Harry on the other hand closed his eyes, dipped his head forward and pushed his fingers beneath the frames of his glasses rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry said without opening his eyes. He supposed the train ride wouldn't be complete without a visit from Malfoy. They were all expected to go through the motions: the baiting, the testosterone-fueled insults, the trading of ill-will that would end just shy of coming to blows.

"Come to say hello is all, Potter."

"I highly doubt that," Harry replied stiffly.

Draco shifted, unfolding out of his lazy slouch against the doorframe. Hermione watched just long enough to see him straighten to his full height before she looked away. She did not want to meet his eyes. It was terribly silly, but she was suffering from the irrational fear that her eyes were her weak point; that he would look into them and somehow find her out. It was impossible, of course. He couldn't know, but she couldn't shake the feeling that it would be best if he didn't notice her at all.

The trouble was that she was anxious to get a look at him. The last time she'd seen him had been the night of the raid, after which Lucius had sealed him off from everyone. She could only assume that either Lucius or Narcissa had healed him in the interim, but Snape had come to collect her before she'd had the chance to see him again.

Her eyes slid to the window of the compartment beyond which she could see the lush end-of-summer landscape as it rushed by. She could also see the faint reflection of the compartment. She studied Draco in the reflection, her eyes darting over him with concern. He appeared to have recovered from his injury. He'd lost that tell-tale hunch and the hitch in his shoulders which were the results of trying to mask his injured flesh. He looked healthy and if she hadn't known better, she'd have thought that the summer had been kind to him.

Her observations complete, Hermione withdrew her gaze and concentrated on making herself invisible. If she didn't look directly at him, if she didn't move, then maybe he'd be so caught up in baiting Harry that he'd look right past her.

"Aunt Bellatrix sends her regards," Draco drawled. "Says she hopes you'll meet again soon."

The mention of Bellatrix Lestrange was not something that Harry could ignore. He turned his eyes on Draco. They were narrowed and dark.

"Sent you with that message, did she Malfoy? To do her dirty work? You're a poor substitute." Harry's words fell between them, a challenge.

Draco bristled.

"I once told you, Potter, to be careful of the company you keep. It marks you. You've chosen the weak and the powerless. So be it."

"Sod off, Malfoy."

Draco's mouth quirked in what was one part sneer, two parts smirk. Hermione was holding her breath. It looked as if he was about to leave. If he simply left now the whole incident could be categorized as nothing more than a mildly unpleasant encounter in a long list of largely unpleasant encounters with Draco Malfoy. She could release the breath that she held assured that she had drawn no undue attention to herself.

Draco turned, angling away from the compartment. She had almost convinced herself that he was indeed leaving, but she should have known better.

He turned back, unable to resist. He presented them with a mocking bow, a parody of courtesy.

"Weasel," he said. And then, "Mudblood."

She shouldn't have let it rattle her. She'd practically seen it coming. This was Malfoy after all. But she couldn't swallow the epithet; couldn't allow herself to be the victim of the violence perpetrated by his words.

Somehow she kept her seat. She wouldn't physically rise to the bait. She couldn't say the same for her temper, however. It had risen precipitously, and once leavened, threatened to slip her grasp. She willed herself not to acknowledge him, not to look at him, but she failed. Hermione cut her eyes to his reflection in the glass.

Draco had discovered the reflection himself. She may have opted not to turn and face him, but he cornered her gaze in the glass and then immediately wished he hadn't. He bore the full brunt of the anger which simmered in her eyes. It was sharp, biting, and surprisingly it stung him almost as much as if she'd slapped him.

Hermione sawed the reins of her temper in an attempt to place it in check. She'd cut him with her eyes and it had been a mistake. Draco stared hard at her now, noticing her, which was exactly what she didn't want.

Harry felt the strange edge in the proceedings. Hermione hadn't spoken, hadn't even looked in Malfoy's direction but somehow she'd become his focus. Harry noticed that there was something different about her, some quality that was difficult to put into words. Whatever it was drew Ron like a lodestone. He'd spent the entire train ride shifting closer to her on the seat and then, overwhelmed by her nearness, easing away, only to move closer again.

It was odd. She wasn't thinner, but somehow sharper as if she'd suddenly been drawn in bold, pointed strokes. She was somehow more defined. Perhaps it was just that Harry was so used to seeing her that when he saw her it was in a kind of shorthand bred by familiarity. Hermione usually boiled down to a hazy mix of teeth, hair, elbows and knees and he didn't need to look past that. So familiar was he that he knew what to expect. But following Malfoy's gaze, Harry realized that there were new elements to consider (legs, cheekbones, lashes) and that his picture of her had reassembled into something altogether foreign and striking.

Ron was on his feet. He didn't like the way that Malfoy was looking at Hermione and Harry really couldn't blame him. Draco shifted tearing his eyes away from Hermione, disgusted with himself. His stance was tight and tense, ready to take on all comers. He was hankering for a fight and if he couldn't tempt Potter, then Weasley would do. What he got, however, was Granger. Before he knew what was happening she pushed him into the hall and slammed the door of the compartment in his face.

Hermione flicked her wand sealing the door with a spell. She turned back to Ron who was ready to spring through the door after Malfoy.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Ron growled.

"Ease down," Hermione said softly. "It's only Malfoy. He's not worth it." Ron's rage sped his breathing. He paced, restless in the close confines of the compartment. Hermione planted herself in front of him and placed a hand on his arm. "Besides, I can handle Malfoy, you know that. There's no need for all this silly chest-thumping." She knocked a hand against his chest in order to illustrate.

That only seemed to make Ron feel worse. He hung his head, partly sheepish but mostly embarrassed. Ron mumbled something. It sounded vaguely like an apology.

Hermione looked up at him and touched the side of his face. Ron flushed three shades of red and it was not until he was well on his way to vermillion that she playfully tweaked his ear.

**OOO**

Her second trip aboard the Hogwarts Express had the distinct air of karma about it. Hermione was convinced that she had somehow failed on her first go-round and that she'd be doomed to repeat the trip until she got it right. Logically she knew that it wasn't at all true, but that was certainly how she felt.

The second trip was for Imogene. Hermione had to establish her presence on the train, make certain that she was seen and remembered. Three and a half turns had placed her precisely where she wanted to be. She was standing in the hall just outside of the compartment where she, Harry and Ron had been sitting, or rather, were currently sitting. The polyjuice coursed through her veins and she could feel the metal and glass of the Time-Turner cold against her belly inside her shirt.

Hermione leaned against the wall nervously rubbing strands of Imogene's dark hair between her thumb and forefinger. Inside the compartment she could hear Ron sarcastically proclaiming his love of textbooks. It would be any minute now.

Her palms were sweating. She rubbed them against Imogene's skirt. It made her especially nervous altering past events. There was of course no way of knowing how even the smallest shift would impact the future, or rather, the present to which she planned to return.

She saw him at the opposite end of the corridor, pale blond head bent in conference with Theodore Nott. Draco was half listening as Nott spoke, his eyes scanning the compartments on either side of the hall. He waved Nott off and the latter retreated back down the hall, leaving Draco to his own devices. Draco peered into another compartment on his left and when he looked up again, he saw Imogene leaning casually against the wall.

"Draco," she said. He inclined his head to her in acknowledgement. "You look well," she spoke softly. And he did. He looked healed, whole. There was a lazy arrogance about him which flapped around his shoulders like a cloak.

"Shouldn't I?" he asked. The edge in his voice dared her to remember the punishment he'd endured on her behalf, a time when he hadn't looked well at all.

Hermione blinked Imogene's large, dark eyes. This was vintage Draco, the boy who chose to paint himself as callous and cruel. Clearly, as the paint had dried it hardened around him, stiffening into a harsh, brittle exterior. This was a boy who could let the word Mudblood slip from his tongue without regard for the consequences. This was the boy called Malfoy; he didn't deserve the respect and intimacy of a first name. He hadn't earned it. This was a boy she could hate. But that would have been all too easy.

"You're staring," he said. "I can only assume that you like what you see." He took a step closer to her in the corridor. If she had been nearsighted it would have been a solicitous gesture, bringing his features into focus for her perusal. As it was with her perfect vision it was simply gratuitous. She was well aware of his sharp, slate grey eyes and pale blond brows. She was certainly acquainted with the angular sturdiness of his chin. She didn't need such a reminder.

"I suppose, if one goes in for that sort of thing."

"And what sort of thing would that be?"

"Tall, blond, arrogant," she said. "Who will you play today I wonder? Quidditch Star or Slytherin Prince? What do you find is the most effective with the fairer sex?"

"You tell me."

"I couldn't possibly."

"No, you couldn't, could you? Not fair at all, are you? Scrawny, more like; eyes dark as pitch, hair the color of soot." She would have been insulted if it hadn't been for the way he looked at her: angry, curious and perhaps the slightest bit amused.

"A poet, how charming."

"For you, cousin, a thousand sonnets." His last words were difficult to hear. It wasn't due to the volume of his voice, however. It had more to do with Hermione's ability to concentrate in light of the fact that he'd pressed her back against the wall of the corridor. He had perfectly good reason to. There was a group of students trying to pass them in the narrow hall. He had absolutely no reason, however, to remain pressed against her after the students had passed. He did so nonetheless.

Hermione hadn't anticipated her reaction. She hadn't counted on how his sudden nearness would affect her. It tripped up her thoughts for one. She'd been totally prepared to answer him a moment ago, but somehow with his chest beneath her fingers and his chin resting on top of her hair, her ability to speak had been compromised. She opened her lips anyway, making way for sound or speech to sally forth should the ability to form words return to her, but she only succeeded in finding the warm skin of his throat with her open mouth.

He shifted suddenly, but not in the way she thought he would. She expected him to draw back, to recoil even, but he leaned closer resting the weight of his body against her. His hands moved to her waist and settled there, anchoring her against him. He didn't know, she thought at last. He believed that she was Imogene and Imogene was the kind of witch that he could touch without sullying the precious Malfoy bloodline.

It was precisely because Imogene was that kind of witch that Draco had spent the entire summer avoiding her. She was the appropriate choice, one that had been made for him by Lucius. He'd grown tired of doing as his father bid. Lucius served himself first and the Dark Lord second. It was blasphemy to even think it, but it was the only way Draco could account for the fact that he clearly trailed a number of others in his father's affections. So the idea that Lucius presumed to find a mate for him rankled to the bone. He would beat his father at this. Lucius could put Imogene in his path, but he could not make Draco desire her. The only one who could do that was Imogene herself.

It shouldn't have worked this way. She wasn't even his type. He'd spent the summer convincing himself that she was everything he didn't want. She was dark, ugly, scrawny, a troll. Cousin Troll, he often thought on seeing her. Desiring Imogene would be like having a hard-on for Granger. So how it was that he fell victim to her proximity he couldn't explain.

It may have had something to do with the fact that with her body flush against his, he could no longer continue to think of her as scrawny or troll-like for that matter. His hands slipped from her waist to her hips. No, trolls didn't have hips like these. Trolls didn't have soft lips that they plied against the base of one's neck. And trolls most certainly did not fit like this along the length of his body, the soft flesh of their breasts barely palpable beneath the thin shirts of their school uniforms.

Hermione had felt his hands shift and settle at her hips. The small movement stirred something in her. Her thoughts began to churn and yield something other than frothy, girlish delight at the strength in his arms and the solid muscle of his chest. It occurred to her that she could touch him. She could put her filthy Mudblood hands on him and he wouldn't know. She could sully him with her hands. Let him fall victim to them. Let him be at their mercy. Let him want the touch of her hands more than anything else and at the very last let him know that she, _Hermione_, had touched him. That was how the game was to be played.

Hermione turned her face out of his neck and pushed him back with her hands opening space between them. Draco dropped his chin and looked down at her. His eyes wandered her face, lingering briefly at her mouth before returning to meet her gaze. She reached up and drew a hand along his cheek, her palm rasping against his jaw. He tensed and caught her fingers tightly in his hand, peeling them away from his face. Hermione felt the shift in him. His eyes narrowed. He was suddenly angry.

"I'll thank you not to take such liberties with my person," he said coldly, sounding a lot like his father. Abruptly, he pushed away from her and stalked off down the hall. Hermione watched him retreat wondering what had suddenly tipped the scales of his temper. _Had it been her touch?_ She knew that she ought to have been concerned by his brusque, angry departure so it was startling to feel her lips draw up in what was undeniably a sly and canny grin.

**OOO**

"Lemon drop?"

Severus Snape shook his head in the negative. He didn't like candy and the old wizard knew it, but that didn't stop him from offering it every time he entered the Headmaster's office. Some may have taken the old man's insistence on repeating what was clearly a pointless gesture as a sure sign of senility, but Snape knew better. It was simply another of Albus Dumbledore's many guises and when he saw that it had served its purpose he would slough it off like so much dead skin revealing yet another guise tailored to his needs.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk absently stroking the tail feathers of the inimitable Fawkes the phoenix.

"How is our Miss Granger, Severus?"

"Well enough."

"And her alter?"

"She remains uncompromised."

"No trouble with the golem magic, then?"

"None," Snape answered after the briefest of hesitations. The pause wasn't lost on Dumbledore whose eyes slid from the phoenix to Snape's face. He knew that the Headmaster would notice the catch in his speech, but he also knew that Albus chose his battles carefully. Snape sat perfectly still, his face impassive and waited. He had no intention of revealing what he'd gleaned from Miss Granger's memories: that she'd lost control of the golem at great risk to her fabricated identity. Such information would only prompt Albus to put a stop to her assignment and said assignment was much too important to come to such an abrupt and inglorious end.

"I trust," Dumbledore began slowly, "that if Miss Granger were to have any significant difficulty with the complex magic we've asked her to perform you would alert me to the fact immediately."

"Your trust is well placed as it ever was with me, Albus." Snape inclined his head. Dumbledore nodded and turned his attention back to Fawkes. He ran his fingers lightly over the crested plumage at the crown of the bird's head.

Snape relaxed albeit imperceptibly. Albus would not challenge him on this. He lived to fight another day as well he should. He had been truthful with Dumbledore. After all, Miss Granger had not had significant difficulty with the golem. As far as Snape was concerned it was difficulty of a negligible nature.

There were two possible reasons for the golem's defection from the province of Miss Granger's authority. Most likely it was that she had formed an attachment to Draco, specifically a subconscious attachment that she'd yet to explore in any significant manner during her waking hours. The golem's actions were therefore the result of these unacknowledged emotions. It was true that the golem was tied to her consciousness, fueled by her logic and focused concentration. However, in rare cases strong, compelling emotions had a way of capturing the golem and overruling all logic.

It was indeed possible that this was the case with Miss Granger. It would stand to reason as the creature itself was a construct and had no inherent sense of logic, self-awareness or intelligence. The magic allowed that it had a rudimentary understanding of its corporeal form; only that which allowed it to walk about and grasp objects. Left to its own devices it would function much as an infant would, gathering information through its hands and, if wholly unchecked, putting objects in its mouth as a means of examination. It hadn't a sense of will with which to defy Miss Granger, so it was most likely that it had escaped her logic though means of some unacknowledged instinct of her own.

There was, of course, a second possibility, but Snape chose not to dwell on it as it was highly improbable.

Dumbledore stirred. "Has Miss Granger gathered any pertinent intelligence during her stay at the manor?"

"She believes that Draco has been given an important task by the Dark Lord. She does not know what the task is. She is therefore determined to discover it."

"We already know what young Mr. Malfoy has been tasked with."

"Yes, we're ahead of her in that regard, but she believes this to be her purpose and I am not inclined to disabuse her of this notion."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "You don't think it's time we told her the truth?"

"Honestly, I do not think her capable of knowing the truth and doing what needs to be done. Miss Granger is many things, among them moral to a fault. She does not have the nuanced understanding of good and evil that this requires. She knows nothing of equivocation. She cannot see that the spectrum extends beyond mere black and white, nor does she understand that it's comprised of shades of grey."

"Severus, I've made mistakes with Harry, in deceiving him, in not revealing pertinent information. I see that now. I do not wish to make the same mistake with Miss Granger."

Snape leaned forward and looked the old wizard in the eye.

"Miss Granger has a role. It is not Potter's role, but it is equally important. Revealing her purpose at this stage will jeopardize that role."

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again he met Snape's gaze with steely intensity. Albus Dumbledore was arguably the greatest wizard of his age. People credited him with wisdom, courage, virtue and any number of other noble traits. Yet, none of those traits with which he was credited were the reason for his acclaim. Dumbledore was the greatest wizard of his age due to his sheer and simple grit. It flashed in his eyes as he regarded the newly appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. It was sad then, that Dumbledore's age had passed.

"I leave this to you, Severus, as I leave you other tasks which I may not have time to complete."

"I will not fail you in this."

"No," Dumbledore chuckled, losing some of his earlier intensity, "I know that you will not." He sighed. "Yet, I fear that I have heaped too much upon your shoulders." Snape shrugged. "Perhaps it isn't wise to lay my tasks at your door, for while I breathe you are in conflict with your Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa Malfoy."

"It matters not. My vow to Narcissa puts me in conflict with my vows to the Order. My vows to the Order put me in conflict with my vows to the Dark Lord. Indeed, my mere existence is composed of conflicting vows which I can never hope to reconcile."

It may have seemed daunting to any other witch or wizard, but for Severus Snape it was all rather mundane. Only through the fine nuance of meaning and the craft of equivocation could he play out the days of his life. It was the same principal that allowed him to hate Harry Potter and yet lay down his life for him. Harry Potter, who was both the son of his tormentor while being the son of the only woman he had ever loved. It fell to Snape to embody conflict and yet still function. He did not believe that Hermione Granger could do the same.

"I had hoped, Severus, that the only vows you'd ever need make would be to a lovely young witch, your friend and equal," Dumbledore said softly.

It took a while before the former Potions Master could make a reply.

"Those vows are lost to me now. Besides, I've had enough of vows. They are many and each one threatens to be the death of me."

**OOO**

Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up. I've had a bit of a cold, but am happy to report that I'm on the mend.

Tura 35—I've added italics to the previous chapter—hopefully that clears things up in terms of the flashbacks.

Mirukarumi—I've also explained the golem's actions as best I could. There is, of course, more to the situation than meets the eye, but all will be revealed in time. I promise!

Special thanks to Quimberly. What an observant reader you are! You _must_ be in college…

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed!

Next up: Is that Hermione Granger falling asleep in class? Inconceivable!


	5. The Two Hermiones

**Chapter 5: The Two Hermiones**

Ron thought he was whispering but it was really more of a stage whisper, so loud and raspy that it could be heard at the opposite end of the common room.

"I'm telling you, Harry, it's true."

Harry was skeptical. There were times when Ron's imagination had a way of getting the better of him. Harry set down his broom and shrugged his Quidditch robes off over his head. He flopped down on to one of the couches near the fireplace. Ron sat down next to him and kicked off his cleats revealing a pair of sweaty, crumpled socks which hung limply from his feet. It had the effect of clearing Parvati and Lavender from the immediate vicinity. The two girls staggered back and relocated to a couple of overstuffed armchairs close to the portrait hole. If Ron's plan had been to ensure a bit of privacy with Harry, then he was an absolute genius; either that or he had no idea of the power of adolescent male sweat.

"Ron, it's not true. I was there remember? I would've noticed," Harry said.

"It happened after you got called to Dumbledore's office," Ron insisted.

"Are you sure you didn't just fall asleep and dream it all up?"

"Of course I was asleep! Everybody was asleep! It's History of Magic! You know Binns, as dull as the day is long. I swear they hired him because he's lived history. _All_ of it."

"Ron—"

"—No, Harry. That's just it. Everybody was sleeping, even _her_. I saw it."

"She'd never fall asleep in class, Ron."

"Oh yeah?" Ron asked, eyebrows raised. "So right after you leave, Binns drones on about the Goblin Wars for a bit and I'm just sitting there, you know, trying to fight it. And I can feel my eyes falling closed and my vision's going a bit crossed-eyed and all, but most of Slytherin is still awake. Dean says they're on to some kind of charm that lets them sleep while their eyes are open, which might be true 'cause Fred and George once used a spell like that during one of Ginny's recitals, so I don't see why the Slytherins can't figure out a way to—"

"—Ron!"

"Right. Anyway, so the next thing I know, my head hits the desk and I wake up. And I'm drooling a bit but that's neither here nor there, really. So I rub my eyes and I look over and who should I see sleeping to beat ol' Trip Von Wrinkle—"

"—I think you mean Rip Van Winkle," Harry said. Apparently, Ron had fallen asleep in Muggle Studies as well.

"Sure. Who should I see next to me snoring—snoring to wake the dead, I tell you—but Hermione!"

Harry held his tongue and it was a good thing he did, because within seconds of saying her name Ron was nailed in the back of the head by a textbook in such excellent condition that it could only have belonged to the alleged sleeping beauty.

Ron howled and fell over sideways. Hermione retrieved her textbook from where it had landed on the floor in front of Harry. She squeezed in between the two of them on the couch and instantly regretted it. Clearly neither one of them had had a chance to shower after Quidditch practice.

"When did you become such a gossip, Ron?" Hermione snapped.

"When you decided to up and fall asleep in the middle of class," Ron answered, gingerly rubbing the back of his head.

"It's not true, Harry," Hermione said, turning to appeal to the more sensible of the two boys. Harry just shrugged. He knew better than to get in the middle of what could blossom into a full-fledged argument between Hermione and Ron.

"Is too." Ron folded his arms across his chest. "And everybody saw it including the Veela."

"She's not a Veela!" Hermione rolled her eyes.

"What Veela?" Harry asked.

"You know, the dark-haired one in Slytherin. The one with the pouty lips," Ron explained, a dreamy look in his eyes.

"She's not a Veela!" Hermione insisted, elbowing Ron to snap him back to reality. "Her name is Imogene."

"Whatever her name is she's pretty spectacular." Ron sighed. "It's like she glows or something. I swear I saw her flickering right before my eyes." Hermione tensed. She didn't want to hear anything about Imogene "flickering" in any sense of the word, especially since to her utter mortification she'd fallen asleep in class for the first time ever nearly causing the golem Imogene to vanish in front of everyone.

"She's the new girl in Slytherin," Hermione said quietly. "She transferred here last year."

"Oh, that one," said Harry.

"_That one?_ What's that supposed to mean, Harry?" Hermione studied him.

"I guess she's pretty," Harry said, absently. "She sort of reminds me of someone—"

"—so, what did Dumbledore have to say?" Hermione interrupted. "Anything new about the H-O-R-C-R-U-X-E-S?" Leave it to her to spell out anything she wished to remain private. Harry doubted that it would've deterred anyone bent on eavesdropping. The only one who seemed to be confused by the sudden onslaught of letters was Ron.

"He thinks he may have a lead on one of them." Harry glanced around. The common room was filling up quickly as students trickled in to socialize in the hour before dinner. "Listen, let's talk about this later, somewhere a bit more…"

"Private," Hermione supplied.

Ron nodded in agreement before he let out a huge yawn. "I don't know about you, Hermione, but I could certainly use a nap."

**OOO**

It was late. The seventh floor hallway was deserted. It suited Draco Malfoy just fine. He didn't want any witnesses as he slipped from the Room of Requirement. The room's entrance disappeared completely leaving a blank wall in its stead. Draco leaned against the wall, his back to it, and let himself slide down the rough stone surface until he was sitting on the floor. He was sweating. His hands were shaking.

_What in the bloody fucking hell was he doing?_

What he'd been taught? What he'd been told to do? What he wanted to do? None of those answers seemed sufficient. All of them rang false somehow. He told himself that he didn't have a choice, but that wasn't true. There was always a choice, always more than one option. The other options weren't always so appealing, however. Options had a way of producing undesired consequences.

He raked his fingers through his hair and drew himself to his feet. Here was where things would get complicated if complications were to arise. He had to get back to the dungeons in the middle of the night without rousing Filch, Mrs. Norris or any of the other denizens of the castle who were likely to rat him out. There was nothing for it then but to get there as quickly as possible.

Draco made his way down the seventh floor hall, his footsteps the only sound that cut through the heavy silence which blanketed the castle at this hour. The repetitive rhythm of his step began to lull him into a false sense of security. He was so taken with the sound that he nearly missed the faint echo of footsteps coming from up ahead. Draco sank back against the wall of the corridor, hoping to hide himself in the shadows. When he saw her, however, hiding slipped to the bottom of his list of priorities.

She was walking toward one of the paintings on the wall. It was a portrait of some hideous fat woman stuffed sausage-like into the casing of a frilly pink dress. What Imogene would be doing here at this hour he couldn't possibly fathom. Well, that wasn't precisely true. If he allowed himself to think of her he might be able to come up with a reason, but thinking of her was strictly forbidden. Thinking of her was a trap of sorts and once sprung he'd find himself caught, tangled in urges which could only be his undoing. He wouldn't think of her as he stepped out of the shadows and walked straight toward her.

Imogene was still, uncannily so. Turned to the portrait as she was he saw only the clean, sharp lines of her profile. She seemed stopped there in time, as if pressed between two panes of glass which kept her suspended, waiting.

Draco approached. He thought himself detached, separated from the scene in front of him, but when he felt her stillness and saw the kind of cold detachment that he sought to achieve reflected in her motionless stance, he knew that what he had conjured was nothing more than a façade—and a brittle one at that. Anger was already beginning to seep through in places. _How could she remain so unmoved? How could she perfect so easily what he clearly struggled to achieve? How could she not react to him, not feel his presence? She should not be capable of such fucking imperturbable poise._

It rattled him and his footfalls became heavy, pointed on the stone floor. He stalked toward her now consuming the space between them which each greedy step. When he was just beyond arm's length of her she turned her heard toward him, slowly, infinitesimally. He caught sight of her eyes, dark and curiously shallow, lacking a certain depth indicative of humanity.

It was then that Imogene did what any self-respecting witch would do when faced with Draco Malfoy in a dark corridor in the dead of night: she ran.

**OOO**

Harry couldn't sleep. It surely wasn't the first time. There had been a period of several months during fifth year when the mere thought of closing his eyes had terrified him. Now it wasn't so much fear that kept him awake. Fear was a constant. He'd accepted it, which isn't to say that he was unaffected by it. He'd just simply come to the conclusion that it wasn't going anywhere so he may as well invite it in and tell it to pull up a chair.

Tonight fear had nothing to do with it, or at least, not the kind of life-altering fear inspired by grims and dark lords. As fears go this one was a little one, a quiet one that kicked at his ribs and stomach and made his palms sweat. He knew how to get rid of it.

Harry tossed the covers back and rolled out of bed. He rifled through his trunk for a moment and then returned to bed holding a roll of parchment. He lit his wand and touched it to the parchment.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The heavily inked lines of the Marauder's Map bled through the surface of the paper. Harry sought her out on the map. She'd be in the girls' dormitory at this hour. It wasn't quite the same as actually seeing her, but it was at least comforting to know that she was there.

Harry let his eyes wander the map. It took a moment before he noticed it. There were two Hermiones shown on the parchment. That couldn't be right. He shook the map as if doing so would somehow correct the mistake, but the two separate Hermiones remained. One was dark and bold and centered in the girls' dorm. The other was faint and it lingered in the hall outside of the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower. Could it be a ghost of her former location or an echo of some sort? Maybe the map had simply gone batty.

Harry shook his head. The map never lied. It never malfunctioned. If there were two Hermiones then there had to be a reason. Perhaps the reason was that Hermione was up to something. Harry sank back on his pillow as he considered this.

"Mischief managed," he murmured.

**OOO**

Hermione was sitting in her bed trying half-heartedly to stifle the gentle scratching sound of her quill against the roll of parchment spread across her knees. She was almost done with her extra credit paper for Ancient Runes and it was true that it wasn't due until next week but there was no time like the present. Lavender often complained that Hermione's late night scribbling kept her from her much needed beauty sleep. Hermione rolled her eyes at the thought. How anyone could be kept awake by the negligible scraping of a quill was beyond Hermione's ability to comprehend—and truly there were few things Hermione Granger couldn't figure out. So either Lavender Brown had the acute hearing of a three-headed dog or she was simply full of hippogriff shit.

Hermione launched into the conclusion of her paper, neatly summarizing the arguments she'd put forth in several concise sentences. The golem was a dull buzzing in the back of her head. It was due in at any moment. Lately, she'd taken to calling it back before banishing it. Ever since the incident at the manor she liked to make sure with her own eyes that it vanished when she severed her connection to it.

Hermione read over the last few paragraphs of her paper considering several revisions when a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through her head just behind her left eye. She squeezed her eyes shut and spent a moment trying to find her breath. The impact of the pain was so sudden that it knocked that wind from her lungs. Her face stung. Her lips ached. Her nose was wet. She opened her eyes to see several drops of blood on the parchment in front of her. Her nose was bleeding.

Instinctively, Hermione brought her hand to her nose. She used the sleeve of her nightgown to staunch the flow of blood. The initial pain in her head subsided and resolved itself into a dull throb. Released from its grip Hermione was able to focus again. Her thoughts turned immediately to the golem. It was running. It was running from Draco Malfoy.

She should've paid more attention to it instead of letting herself get distracted by her runes paper. Now it appeared to be in some kind of danger. Hermione wanted nothing more than to let her concentration slip and have the golem vanish instantly, but Draco was much too close. He would see it happen and then the "real" Imogene would be forced to explain.

Hermione climbed out of bed and pulled on a cloak. She had no idea what she was going to do but she did know that she couldn't leave Draco alone with the double. Something told her that it wouldn't stand up to his scrutiny. Hermione drew the hood of her cloak over her head. She spared the briefest of moments to rummage through her trunk and retrieve a carefully hidden vial of polyjuice. She ran down the stairs from the girls' dormitory and into the common room, her sights set on the portrait hole.

**OOO**

When she'd taken off running his instinct had simply been to follow. He hadn't thought to call out or hex her to a halt. He'd simply started running after her. Once he'd started running he'd given little thought to anything else.

Draco gave chase determined to run her to ground. He could keep this up all night if he had to, but after a while she rounded a familiar corner and mounted a spiral staircase. He knew that the chase was nearing its end. She was climbing the Astronomy Tower. Soon enough there would be no where to run.

Draco took the stairs two at a time gaining on her. Imogene didn't look back at him. She hadn't, not once, not the whole time he'd pursued her.

The narrow stairs wound their way upward inside the tower walls. He lost sight of her briefly as the staircase curved but the next step brought him closer and Imogene came back into view, her dark hair spilling out behind her as she continued to climb.

Finally she reached the top of the stairs and threw open the door which led out on to the ramparts. The top of the tower was deserted and the absence of the moon left the sky suffused in darkness. Imogene spun around once and then came to a complete stop. When Draco crossed the threshold seconds later he found her standing eerily still, her back to him.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked. For some reason the question didn't sound nearly as cross as he would've liked. It probably had something to do with the fact that he was breathing hard, having spent the better part of fifteen minutes running after her. He took a moment to catch his breath which crashed through his lungs like a drunken boggart.

Imogene didn't answer. She didn't bother to turn around. Draco was furious. He grabbed her by the wrist and spun her toward him. The least she could do was face him.

He was met with the same blank stare, the same curious lack of depth in her eyes. And there was something else. She wasn't sweating, wasn't remotely breathing hard. One would have thought she'd apparated to the top of the tower instead of having led him on a merry chase through the school and climbed a winding staircase mere moments ago.

Draco took a step closer to her. She didn't move. She simply stared straight ahead her eyes level with his collar. He tucked his fingers beneath her chin and, none too gently, tipped her head back so that she was looking into his face.

"Is this some sort of game, Imogene?"

No response.

"Because it's only a matter of time."

She remained unmoved.

"It's only a matter of time until you answer me."

And she would answer him, Draco thought, one way or another.

**OOO**

Hermione winced as she felt Draco touch the golem. His fingers were wrapped tightly around its wrist. She felt the intense pressure of his grip on her own wrist and it caused her to quicken her pace in the dark hallway. Her cloak billowed around her as she ran and the nightgown she wore beneath it tangled around her legs. Neither garment was responsible for the sudden stumble that left her sprawling on the cold, stone floor however.

Before she could determine what had occurred Professor Snape was dragging her roughly to her feet. He'd appeared and reacted so quickly that Hermione wondered if he hadn't just stuck his foot out in front of her and tripped her himself.

"Miss Granger!" he hissed. Still slightly off-balance Hermione steadied herself against his arm. In the process her hood fell back. "Or should I say, Miss LeCoeur," Snape amended and snatched his arm away. "Dare I ask where you're going at this hour?"

"Draco's alone with the golem in the Astronomy Tower. It's frightened. It's in danger."

Snape regarded her a moment. She looked terrified.

"I'll remind you that it can't be frightened. It has neither intelligence nor sentience. It isn't real. And the only danger present is of you growing faint from an unsightly nosebleed."

Hermione drew her fingers to her nose and sure enough it was bleeding again. Snape released a soft hiss of air which reached Hermione's ears as an exasperated sigh. He grasped her chin and tilted her head up to inspect the damage. Deciding it wasn't worth the time or energy it took to cast a spell, he produced a handkerchief from his sleeve with minimal prestidigitation. Hermione accepted the handkerchief and took a moment to tend her nose.

"The golem _is_ in danger," she insisted. "How else do you explain this?" she asked gesturing toward her nose.

"Your inability to handle the magic," Snape answered coolly. "The golem is not in danger in the Astronomy Tower, I assure you." He paused a moment. "Or did you think I don't know what students do there?"

Hermione felt her face heat in embarrassment, but it was short-lived as she realized that at least she wouldn't have to explain to Professor Snape of all people that she didn't think the golem could withstand the kind of intense scrutiny and physical contact that was bound to occur during an encounter on the Astronomy Tower.

"So what did you think to do, Miss LeCoeur, substitute yourself? Without him noticing?"

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it again. She had thought to do precisely that, but somehow hearing the former Potions Master voice her thoughts made them seem foolish and immature.

"And should you have succeeded in trading places with the golem unbeknownst to Mr. Malfoy, he wouldn't then notice your sudden change in attire? He'd simply think that you'd been wearing a blood-stained nightgown and a cloak all along?"

Hermione shook her head. She admitted that her plan was poorly conceived but it'd been born out of urgency.

"Allow me to address this," Snape said, and despite the politesse of his phrasing she knew that he wasn't asking her permission.

**OOO**

Draco was waiting for Imogene to answer him, and while searching for answers in her mouth with his tongue was certainly one method of eliciting a response, it wasn't proving to be at all effective. The kiss was flat, stale. Imogene was rigid in his arms. He may as well have been kissing Professor McGonagall. The whole thing was decidedly anti-erotic.

Draco tried again with renewed effort. He drew his hands up to her face and angled her head so that her mouth slanted more fully against his. It made absolutely no difference. Imogene was a complete and total cipher, almost an absence of being. If he hadn't had the evidence of her presence between his very hands he would have accused her of not being present at all.

It made no sense. He'd been close to her before. He knew what happened when the two of them were in a certain proximity to one another. It was the very reason he'd willed himself not to think of her. There was something about her that clouded his thoughts and chafed warmth into his senses. It was completely lacking now. Imogene left him cold.

Before he could ponder the matter further, he heard footsteps on the stair, and what happened next happened so quickly that Draco barely had time to even witness it. Professor Snape emerged from the staircase and snatched Imogene from his arms. He dragged her to the crenellated parapet and without ceremony threw her off of the tower.

Draco blinked.

Snape merely dusted off his hands and turned to leave as if that were all the explanation that was necessary.

"Professor? Surely you could have taken away house points. Surely there was no need to kill her?"

"Don't be foolish. There are much more efficient methods of killing a girl than tossing her from a tower."

"Then you didn't just murder a student?" Draco asked. It was perhaps the most curious question he'd ever had to ask his Head of House.

Snape turned his eyes to Draco. Quite frankly the former looked bored.

"Mr. Malfoy, what you were—I believe the term is snogging, is it?—what you were clearly snogging with such abandon a moment ago was nothing more than a rather nasty astral projection hex of which Miss LeCoeur had the misfortune to be the victim."

"A hex? A walking, talking, breathing hex?" Draco asked.

"Did it talk?" Snape countered, raising an eyebrow.

Draco thought a moment. It hadn't talked and for all he knew it hadn't been breathing either. "No, I don't suppose it did."

Draco walked to the edge of the battlements and peered at the ground below. There was no broken body as he might have expected.

"So this hex," Draco began, "it's quite gone now?"

"Quite," Snape replied.

Satisfied, Draco stepped away from the wall.

"And Imo—and Miss LeCoeur, she's all right?"

"You may ask her yourself." Snape nodded to where Imogene stood framed in the doorway to the tower.

Draco turned to look at her and the difference between the hex and the girl was immediately apparent. This Imogene was raw with feeling and her presence was palpable. Her eyes were alive, intelligent and damp as if she'd been crying. Her cloak was twisted around her shoulders and the nightgown she wore was stained at the sleeve and collar with what appeared to be blood. Her bare toes peeked out from beneath the hem of the nightgown. She looked utterly vulnerable.

She hadn't even done anything and already he was struggling with the urge to protect her—from what he hadn't a clue.

"I'm all right," she said quietly. Hermione knew as she spoke that the statement wasn't wholly true. She couldn't have anticipated the impact of the golem's terror as Snape had thrown it from the tower. It had been mind-numbing. She'd scarcely been able to release her concentration to extinguish it before it hit the ground. It left her shaken, weak.

Snape pushed past her through the doorway and began to descend the staircase.

"Come," he called.

**OOO**

He remembered nothing of the walk to the dungeons except that he'd walked behind her. Draco had watched her the entire way. What he saw was her back, her hair, and on occasion her bare heels and ankles when they crept out from beneath the edge of her cloak. It shouldn't have absorbed his attention, but it had.

Snape stopped in front of the entrance to the Slytherin common room, a blank stone wall that looked just like any of the other blank stone walls which formed the often circuitous corridors of the castle dungeons.

"I trust that the two of you can make it the rest of the way to your respective dormitories." It wasn't so much a question as it was a command, one delivered quite imperiously. The Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor didn't wait for a reply. He simply disappeared down the hall. That left the two of them.

Draco was watching her intently. It made Hermione fidget.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry if the hex was…mean to you."

"Mean? She wasn't mean. She just didn't seem to like me. Odd really. They always like me."

"Do they now?"

"Oh, yes. Never met a girl who didn't."

Hermione looked him over and got the strange sense that he was being earnest. Was it still arrogance if he accepted what he was saying as undisputed fact? She didn't have it in her to argue. It was bad enough that she was going to have to spend the night in the Slytherin dormitory.

"Good night, Draco," she said. Hermione turned to the wall, thinking hard about what the password could be. It was usually something pretty obvious like "pure-blood" or "Salazaar." Slytherins may be cunning but sometimes they weren't very bright.

Draco would not be dismissed so easily. He turned her back around to face him. She wasn't surprised but she couldn't say that she was quite prepared either. He unclasped her cloak and pushed the heavy garment from her shoulders. Before she could react he gathered her close in her ridiculously high-necked, long-sleeved nightgown and rested his forehead against hers.

"I have to know," he said. He heard himself speaking but he barely remembered forming a sentence. He was busy kicking himself for believing that the girl, the hex, the _thing_ that he'd held earlier could possibly have been Imogene. Already he felt the difference: her scent, her warmth, the way in which her nearness influenced him.

He shifted and his lips found her brow before they slipped beneath its ridge to kiss her eyelid closed. He felt the fringe of her lashes against his chin and heard her inhale sharply and quickly as if she'd been caught by surprise.

Hermione was indeed taken aback. Of all the things she thought Draco Malfoy capable of, tenderness wasn't one of them. If he had simply kissed her roughly she could've fought him. It would have been all too easy. But this was something else entirely.

Draco moved again, his nose brushed hers briefly before he touched his lips to hers. He had wanted to know and here was his answer. This was Imogene; real and present; the girl Lucius would have him marry; the girl he suspected he should steer clear of for his own good. Her mouth softened against his and her fingers curled in the neck of his sweater. His whole body tensed knowing the answer, knowing what he wanted of her. Draco's hands snagged in her hair tilting her head back, gently, allowing him to take the kiss where he wanted; to draw back briefly, to touch his lips to the corner of her mouth, her chin, her throat, before finding her mouth again. A sigh escaped her, a soft exhalation against his lips, and in that moment several things became clear to him.

He should not allow this to happen. An attachment like this was dangerous. But it was already too late. He shouldn't have kissed her. He should have gone on without answers always wondering instead of knowing. Now the box was open, the lid no where to be found, and all that remained is that he wanted her. He wanted Imogene. And he would have her.

Something in his kiss must have told her that the decision had been made. She drew back suddenly, eyes frightened, searching his face.

"They can't always like you," she said a bit breathlessly. "Not all of them. Not all the time."

Draco shrugged, a familiar grin settling over his features.

"Always," he said. "All the time."

**OOO**

Further along the dark corridor but not so far as one might think from the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Severus Snape held his silence in a small alcove. The choice to leave them alone had been a calculated risk. The quality of the silence in the corridor, however, told its own story; the absence of speech replaced with a dialogue of another kind between boy and girl. The risk had paid off then.

It was done.


	6. Accio Loathing

**Chapter 6: Accio Loathing**

Hermione was out of sorts. A Muggle might say that she'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Actually, she'd woken up in the wrong bed altogether. She hated sleeping in the Slytherin girls' dormitory, but some nights it was an absolute necessity. Usually, she used the Time-Turner to backfill any noticeable absences, but last night she hadn't been able to avoid sleeping there herself. She'd crawled into Imogene's bed and pulled the covers up over her head, but not before she noticed Pansy Parkinson scowling in her direction. She'd been tempted to place a few wards around the bed in order to keep Pansy from jinxing her in her sleep.

Not that she'd actually done much sleeping. She'd spent most of the night trying not to think about Draco Malfoy, but it turned out he was rather insidious. She really had to put her foot down when it came to thoughts of Draco. She had much more important things to think about, chief among them how she was going to make it through Potions with Draco and Imogene sitting at the table in front of her. Now that he'd actually seen the golem, touched it, kissed it, she'd have to go out of her way to make it authentic or he would begin to suspect that some sort of hex was afoot.

It took a lot of concentration to make Imogene nuanced. It was especially difficult when Hermione was required to divide her attention between the golem and something as intellectually rigorous as a N.E.W.T.-level potions class. She sighed. To make matters worse, Professor Slughorn hadn't showed up yet, which was odd. He usually greeted them at the door, waiting anxiously to bask in the glow of the Boy-Who-Lived. The downtime left the class chattering amongst each other, all except Draco and Imogene. He stared at her, grey eyes sharp, observant, taking her in, from the soft curl of flesh that was her ear, along the exposed skin of her throat, to the curved lines of her lips.

That wouldn't do. Hermione felt her face heat as if he'd been staring at her. He hadn't of course. He was watching Imogene and she realized that he seemed to like looking at her. That wouldn't do at all. It was pointedly distracting.

And Imogene? Well, Imogene, Hermione decided, ducked her head slightly and allowed her hair to slip forward, covering the side of her face. It had the effect of screening out Draco's gaze while it played into the impression that perhaps she was feeling a bit shy after last night.

"Hermione!" Ron said, in what she thought to be an extraordinarily loud voice. She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of her name. "What are you staring at Malfoy for? He do something to you?"

Hermione shushed him six ways from Sunday. Then she shushed him some more. "No, Ron," she said finally, "and I'm not staring. He's right in front of me. I can't _not_ look at him."

"I can," Ron grumbled. He leaned over to Harry and asked in his whisper that wasn't a whisper, "Harry, does Hermione seem jumpy to you?"

"I can hear you, Ron!" Hermione explained.

"Well, then you know that I'm asking _Harry_ a question."

"Is that what you do then? Talk about me to Harry behind my back?"

Harry sighed. He pretended to be very interested in a loose thread hanging from the sleeve of his robes.

"I'm not talking about you behind your back, am I?" Ron said. "I'm talking about you right in front of your face!"

"Ten points from Gryffindor for inane bickering and the wasting of precious class time." Severus Snape swooped into the room, dark robes billowing as he stalked to the front of the class. "Professor Slughorn was called away on urgent business. He will return in time for your next lesson. In the meantime I am to see that you follow the instructions he has left for the class."

Ron groaned. "We have Defense Against the Dark Arts after this. That's double the Snape!" he whispered to Harry.

"Ten more points from Gryffindor for talking out of turn. Mr. Weasley, do learn how to whisper."

"Shut it, Weasley," Dean Thomas muttered from the back of the room. Ron folded his arms across his chest and sank into a sulk. Snape turned his attention back to the rest of the class.

"You are to brew the Amortentia potion. Who here knows what that is?"

As if on cue, Hermione's hand shot into the air. Snape saw it and ignored it. He glanced at the class. Several of the Ravenclaw students had their hands raised as well, but Miss Granger had certainly been the first to launch her hand aloft.

"Miss LeCoeur," he said finally.

Hermione's mouth was already open to begin her answer when she realized that he hadn't called on her. He'd called on Imogene. Her eyes narrowed. Snape knew how difficult it was to make the golem speak. Was this some sort of challenge?

"Don't be shy," Snape said. Coming from any other teacher it would have been gentle encouragement. Coming as it was from Snape the effect was altogether different. This was not encouragement. It was an order.

Imogene sat up straight and pushed her hair from her face. Her eyes slid slowly up to meet Snape's gaze. In them was a look of such clarity and determination that he blinked in order to be sure of what he was seeing. Imogene was suddenly very present, very real and perhaps just the least bit angry. She bristled with an intensity that Draco couldn't help but react to. He leaned back in his chair in an elegant slouch to watch her, a proud smirk settling on his lips. It was the girl behind Draco, however, that Snape had turned his attention to. Hermione Granger was seething.

"The Amortentia," Imogene began in her low, slightly raspy voice, "is the most powerful of all love potions. It is believed to have first been brewed by the Amazons who used it to bind their male mates to them for the duration of the mating period after which they disposed of them."

Snape listened carefully to her answer. Imogene's voice was noticeably different from Hermione's but the cadences, the words she chose and her distinct phrasing all belonged to a particular know-it-all who at the moment was quite unhappy that he'd forced her to this complicated bit of magic first thing in the morning. No matter. He'd achieved his end. It was vital that she breathe life into the golem and she had; uncanny life.

"Excellent. Ten points to Slytherin."

Hermione's mouth fell open. If she'd been angry mere moments ago she was practically livid by now. Never in all her days had she hoped to use her intellect to benefit Slytherin House in any way.

"Now, you will work in pairs for this assignment. Instructions can be found in chapter seven of your textbook. I would advise you to follow them carefully as you and your partner will be required to test your own potion," Snape explained.

Ron moved quickly in claiming Hermione as his partner. She wasn't at all pleased about it, but her alternative, Harry, had already paired off with Parvati. Hermione glanced quickly at the table in front of her to see Draco and Imogene organizing their ingredients.

"Just a moment," Snape said suddenly. "It occurs to me that the true test of this potion is not if it is used among friends but among rivals. Therefore, your partner will be someone of a different house." The entire class froze, unready and unwilling to comply. "Very well," Snape said. "I shall choose the pairings."

Hermione felt her stomach drop. Snape was up to something. She had a feeling that she knew what it was even before she found herself standing next to Draco Malfoy, having been ordered to switch partners with Imogene. She waited for Malfoy's face to twist into a scowl and braced herself for the insults that she knew were sure to follow. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. She was doing her best to summon the intense feelings of loathing and righteous indignation that should have resulted when Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were forced into contact with one another, but it wasn't working—no matter how many times she muttered "_Accio loathing_" under her breath.

She simply knew too much about him. She knew that much was expected of him, much that was unkind, but there was something in him, a tenderness, that made it difficult to hate him outright. It was because of last night. He'd been so careful with her—with Imogene—the way he'd touched her, gently, and she realized that there was nothing she could do about it. It was up to him to make her hate him and he was failing at it, miserably. _Go ahead, Malfoy,_ she thought, _make me hate you._

Draco continued to regard her. She could see him thinking, but what he was thinking she had no idea. He quickly looked away. Hermione leaned across him, reaching for the first of the ingredients. She felt him tense.

"Not so close, Granger," he said. There was a low note of warning in his voice.

"Sorry, did I sully His Majesty's robes?"

"Just because I have to work with you doesn't mean I want to wear you."

"You needn't worry about that. I'll keep my distance."

Draco leaned in close to her. It should have been threatening. For some reason it wasn't.

"See that you do," he said.

Hermione felt her face heat. She told herself it was because of the steam rolling off of the cauldron in front of her. She busied herself rolling up the sleeves of her robe and twisting her hair into a knot at the back of her neck.

**OOO**

Ron was quite simply flabbergasted. Potions was hard enough as it was. Usually, he spent half the class worried that his cauldron would explode. Now he had the added pressure of being partnered with a Veela, and not just any Veela, the dark-haired Slytherin Veela who'd haunted his dreams. He was terrified.

She seemed content not to talk to him, focused as she was on the task at hand. She neatly arranged the ingredients and began to work, methodically following the instructions in the textbook. Oddly, there was something about the Veela that reminded him of Hermione. Maybe it was the way she tied her hair up into a knot to keep it out of her face. Or maybe it was that funny way she had of peering sideways into the cauldron in order to keep her eyebrows from being singed off—a lesson that Ron had had to learn the hard way.

The Veela offered a bowl of valerian roots to him, gesturing that he should add them to the potion. Ron croaked in response, a charming toad-like sound that was clearly born from his own nervousness. He stared at her, frozen. She shook her head and added the roots herself, after which she began to carefully stir the potion. Once she looked away from him he seemed to thaw out. Ron's first move was to lean over to Harry.

"I'm dying here!" he gasped, talking out of the side of his mouth as if that would make him less conspicuous.

Harry turned away from the potion he'd been brewing with Luna Lovegood. His glasses were fogged from the bluish steam that rose from his cauldron. He pulled them off and wiped the lenses on his robes before answering Ron.

"I dunno, Ron, your potion doesn't look so bad."

"Not the potion, Harry, the Veela," he said, nodding toward Imogene. "She won't talk to me. I'm going down in flames!"

"What did you say to her?"

"Nothing."

"That's probably why she won't talk to you."

"Harry, help a bloke out here. What do I say? What do you say to a goddess?"

"Er, maybe, hello?"

"Hello? I can't say hello! She's a goddess!"

"I thought you said she was a Veela."

Snape rapped his wand against the teacher's desk as a warning that the conversation in the room had gotten a bit too loud.

Ron and Harry turned back to their respective potions, but moments later Ron leaned over again.

"You're holding out on me, Harry!"

"What?"

"C'mon, you've gotta show me your moves."

"My moves?" Harry asked, confused.

"Yeah, you know what I mean. Your Cho Chang moves. Your mojo."

"Ron, there's no Cho… mojo. That didn't really work out, remember?"

"'Course it did, mate. You snogged her."

"Yeah, well not in potions class and I had to talk to her first."

"Right. So what did you say?"

Harry shrugged. "Sorry I saw your boyfriend murdered by Voldemort."

"That's no good. No bird wants to hear that," Ron said.

Harry was at a loss, so he was somewhat thankful when Luna spoke up.

"Ronald, if Harry says that he has no mojo, then I think we can believe that he has no mojo," she explained.

"Thanks, Luna," Harry said, though he wasn't sure he would've put it quite like that. What he was trying to say to Ron was that there were no magic words. In fact, there was no magic at all. It was more a matter of Muggle chemistry.

Disappointed, Ron went back to his potion. He stood stiffly next to the Veela trying for all the world to think of something to say.

**OOO**

Hermione was for once thrilled that Ron managed to be so woefully inept when it came to girls. It saved her from having to make the golem speak. She had worries enough of her own to deal with, namely this newfound sensitivity to Malfoy. They'd spent the better part of class trying to avoid speaking or even looking at each other, but they couldn't avoid touching when working in such close quarters.

Draco reached around behind her for the cutting knife to her right. It had the effect of pinning against the table, leaving her sandwiched as it were between him and the cauldron. It was closer than Draco had ever intended to be to her, a fact that struck him profoundly when he found his nose buried in the soft, curly brown hair at the top of her head.

Hermione went rigid. Draco jumped back as if he'd been burned. _Her hair._ Something about it felt... right. It even smelled vaguely familiar. It was entirely disturbing. Maybe the vapors from this ridiculous potion had gone to his head.

He cursed himself for being so clumsy, so stupid. He could simply have asked her to pass the knife to him, but that would have required speaking to her and he'd been trying to keep that to a minimum. Irritated, he drove the cutting knife into the table. The blade caught in the wooden surface and the knife stuck there, handle vibrating as Draco stalked off toward the store cupboard to retrieve one last ingredient.

Hermione was just as jumpy as Draco. It didn't help that Snape had been watching them closely the entire class. He'd seen their hands touch, seen them desperately trying to negotiate what suddenly felt like the very cramped space of the worktable. At one point, several strands of her hair had come loose and managed to become tangled in the fastening of Draco's robes. They'd been stuck together for several tediously uncomfortable moments with Snape watching them, hawk-like and sharp-eyed.

Thankfully, the potion was nearly done. In another ten minutes they'd be ready to test it.

**OOO**

_This is a test. This is only a test,_ she thought. And Hermione was usually quite successful when it came to exams and the like. After all, she studied hard, she was eager to acquire knowledge, and she was known to be a fast learner.

Hermione was passing this particular test with flying colors; folded in Draco's arms, kissing him in such a way that would have made the French proud.

She'd pulled him to her by his tie and now her mouth was open over his, her lips soft, wet, attentive. Draco locked his arms around her waist, drawing her close, crushing their robes between them. He kissed her hard, pressing her back against the edge of the worktable.

It was over almost as suddenly as it had started. Snape grabbed Draco by the scruff of his neck and dragged him bodily from Hermione.

"A strong potion, indeed. I don't believe I've ever seen two students return to kissing one another _after_ having taken the antidote," Snape said drily. "Top marks to you Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger."

"Antidote?" Hermione said. She followed Snape's gaze to the empty vial that he held between his fingers. He _had_ given them the antidote some minutes ago—she remembered that now—but somehow it hadn't stopped either of them from falling on one another.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Draco spat on the floor and scrubbed his mouth with the back of the hand. It was a good show, and she would've considered being hurt if it hadn't been for the fact that the disgust which had settled over his features didn't seem to reach his eyes.

Draco was doing what he was supposed to do. He knew what was required of him, Lucius had seen to that. Even if he were thinking that Granger was an annoyingly competent kisser with legs for days beneath the pleats of her skirt, he could in no way own or acknowledge it. It had to be the bloody potion, antidote or no.

For Hermione the utter mortification was beginning to sink in. She had shamelessly snogged Draco in front of the entire class and quite frankly she was afraid to even look at her classmates. When she finally did muster the courage, however, she was shocked to find that the rest of them were engaging in rather similar behavior.

Harry held Luna in his lap, chuckling as she kissed his glasses off of his face, Neville Longbottom was lovingly braiding Padma Patil's hair, and Ron was on his knees clutching the hem of Imogene's skirt. Snape made his way across the classroom administering the antidote to one and all. He sighed wearily when he reached the last pair, Dean and Seamus. They'd been forced to work together due to the extra number of Gryffindor boys in the class. Snape pried the kissing boys apart and dosed them heartily. The boys fell into an embarrassed sulk once the antidote had taken effect.

Mercifully, they'd come to the end of class. Snape dismissed them all summarily and Hermione rushed to pack her things. She was exhausted and struggled to turn her focus to Imogene whom she'd neglected somewhat the moment she'd found her mouth on Draco's.

Draco pushed passed Hermione, rudely, and it pricked her temper. She thought he may have just done it; he may have succeeded in getting her to hate him again. So be it. She was prepared. She felt anger tighten her hands into fists and she would have kicked off her hatred right then and there if it hadn't been for the clumsy and unintentional sweep of his gaze. She met his eyes briefly and in less than an instant she saw it: confusion. Draco turned on his heel and left the room.

The whole thing left her decidedly unsettled. She scooped up her bag and started for the door under the weighty burden of Snape's impassive but by no means benign stare. And that's when she remembered. Another set of eyes. Another pointed stare. She'd glimpsed it just as Snape had separated her from Draco; eyes that had cut into her, eyes that had focused jealousy and rage and distilled them into one venomous stare. It was impossible, but it was true.

Imogene had glared at her.

**OOO**

It'd been a while since the fire in the Gryffindor common room had died. The stone walls and high ceiling worked in concert to cultivate the chill which blossomed from the ground up, seeping into the rafters. Despite the noticeable drop in temperature Harry was beginning to doze. It may have had something to do with the absence of other students, the deep darkness, and the late night silence which had descended on the space.

He felt rather than heard the sound of the portrait hole opening, not fully awake. There were footsteps, faint. He forced his eyes open. There was a cloaked figure stumbling in the dark. Presently, it tripped and fell on him where he lay stretched out on the couch. Harry wriggled and managed to find his wand as the bundle of arms and legs on top of him struggled to right itself.

"_Lumos_," he whispered. The figure stopped struggling when the wandlight spilled over her features.

"For the love of Merlin!" Hermione exclaimed. "Harry, you scared the pumpkin juice out of me! What are you doing up?"

"I was waiting for you. Had no idea it'd get so late."

"I lost track of time. Harry, is everything okay? Is it your scar?" she asked, touching his forehead.

"No, my scar's fine. But your elbow's in my—"

"—Oh, sorry," Hermione said. She resumed her efforts to climb off of him. Her cloak had become trapped underneath him and rather than tug it loose she simply unclasped it and slipped it from her shoulders. Moments later, the two of them sat next to each other on the couch. Harry used his wand to rekindle the fire in the fireplace.

"What's wrong?" she asked finally, sensing his unease. She hoped that Harry wasn't upset with her. Ron had already declared that he wasn't speaking to her due to what he termed her tongue-dueling with Malfoy. She didn't need that kind of rebuke from Harry as well.

"Well, I…," Harry began, but stopped. He rose to his feet and started to pace back and forth. She could see him thinking, working things out. "I was looking at the Marauder's Map the other night. I've been looking at it, you know, to see what Malfoy's been up to. He's been skulking around the castle, acting strange even for him."

Hermione froze. If Harry had seen Draco on the map, he might also have seen anyone in the immediate vicinity, say, atop the Astronomy Tower for instance.

"But the other night, I saw you on the map and there were two of you. Two Hermiones."

Hermione chose her words carefully.

"Are you sure it wasn't some sort of foul-up? With the map, I mean."

"That's what I thought, only the map doesn't foul-up," Harry said softly.

"No, I don't suppose it does," Hermione answered. She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. Lying to Harry as she was about to do made her especially nervous. She didn't like it. "I think it's just the map's way of reading the Time-Turner."

"You're using the Time-Turner again?"

"Well, it's N.E.W.T.s, isn't it? I haven't possibly got time for all my classes," she said, a bit defensively.

"The Time-Turner." Harry seemed to mull it over. It was a plausible explanation as to why the map would read her twice—almost too plausible. He thought back to third year, trying to remember a time when he might have seen Hermione use the Time-Turner on the map. He couldn't think of any. He really hadn't known she'd even been using it until end of term.

Hermione picked nervously at the hem of her skirt, her eyes downcast. She couldn't look Harry in the face. She could only hope that he was buying her story. They sat in silence for several moments and she was just beginning to relax when Harry spoke.

"Hermione, your tie."

"What?"

"Your tie. It's green and silver."

Hermione's fingers flew to her neck and clutched at the tie knotted neatly at her throat. She was wearing Imogene's uniform. It may have had something to do with the fact that she'd spent the entire evening as Imogene and had only returned to Gryffindor Tower after the polyjuice had worn off. She hadn't planned on running into Harry on her way to the girls' dorm.

Harry watched as panic streaked across Hermione's features. It was fleeting, however. In moments she'd recovered herself.

"Oh, that," she said casually. "It's some silly charm that the Slytherins have come up with. It changes your house colors so it looks like you've switched allegiance to Slytherin."

Harry looked at her, somewhat skeptical.

"They've been using it a lot at Quidditch matches, you know, turning the stands green and silver. Guess you haven't noticed though. You're usually pretty busy during Quidditch matches."

Hermione decided that now was the time to stop talking. The more she spoke, the worse her story sounded.

"It's a charm?" Harry asked. "Then you know the counter-spell?"

"Of course, I do."

Harry looked at her expectantly.

"I'll handle it once I get upstairs. Honestly, Harry, you don't think I actually want to be wearing Slytherin colors, do you?"

"No, I can't see why you would." He stood and began to pace again, wearing a path in the carpet in front of the fireplace. "Is something going on Hermione?"

"Everything is going on. There's the Runes exam in two weeks, the Potions project, the Transfiguration essay—"

"—No, I mean, is there something else going on? With you?"

"With me? Well, no Harry. I'm the same old Hermione, a bit knackered maybe, but, you know, all in all just right as rain."

Harry seemed to accept this, or at least, he accepted it enough not to press the matter further. It was late and they were both exhausted.

Hermione gathered her cloak and mounted the stairs which led toward the girls' dormitory, a bit knackered and in no way right as rain.

**OOO**

Hermione was clearly slipping. There was entirely too much to keep track of. There was Hermione's uniform and there was Imogene's uniform. There were Hermione's classes and there were Imogene's classes. There were times when she was supposed to hate Draco Malfoy and times when she was supposed to like him. There were the details of two distinct and separate lives, which had begun to blend together. Indeed the devil was in the details and he would see to it that the details were the death of her.

Hermione sighed. Quietly, so as not to wake Lavender, she pulled aside her bed curtains, turned down the sheets and slid between the covers. It was the simplest action in the world. It had no hidden meaning, required no subterfuge. Hermione was getting into bed, her bed, not Imogene's. She was grateful for the unfettered simplicity of it. She took delight in the transparency of the act.

By contrast, her night up until this point had been much more complex, and as such it bore the requisite symbols of complexity: cloak, potion, and clandestine meeting. It had been the usual circus; the bell, book and candle routine which summoned Imogene into being by way of the polyjuice potion.

This Imogene, of several hours ago, was somewhat more real than the Imogene of this morning's potions class. This Imogene was an altered Hermione trying desperately to mind the details.

She'd come across Draco in the seventh floor hallway earlier that night. The timing was everything. A moment earlier and she would've seen nothing but an empty corridor. A moment later and she would've seen Draco strolling the hall. She would've missed that crucial moment when he stepped out of the wall through a door which rapidly faded from sight. Draco Malfoy had stepped out of the Room of Requirement.

She watched as he turned to face the wall behind him. He placed his palms against it and leaned into it, almost as if he were trying to push the wall away from him. He let his head hang forward and pressed against the stone surface tightening his arms. Frustration drove him. He gritted his teeth and ground his palms harder against the rough stone.

"You won't win," Hermione said softly. "It's stronger than you are." She took a couple of tentative steps toward him. "It's been here longer."

Draco jumped at the sound of her voice. He realized he wasn't alone and immediately straightened, dusting his palms against his robes. The heels of his hands were raw from where they'd rasped against the stone.

When he looked up at her his eyes were clouded with uncertainty. Hermione held her tongue. He looked as if he might speak. But he didn't. He looked away. When he looked back, the uncertainty was gone—in its place a more familiar expression; one that was cocky, teasing.

"Out looking for me, were you?" he asked.

"Blaise said you sometimes like to walk the castle."

"The castle is huge, and yet you found me here."

"I thought you might be looking for that girl you snogged this morning, the one with the frizzy hair. We are near Gryffindor Tower, after all."

He walked toward her, but stopped a foot or so away. Draco circled to her right. When he spoke, it was from behind her.

"I should tell you that I don't like clingy girls," he said, "or jealous girls either for that matter."

"Really? Then poor Pansy Parkinson. She's horribly jealous."

"And why's that?"

"She's under the impression that you like me," Hermione said, without bothering to turn and face him.

"Wonder what gave her that idea." Draco leaned against her. He was standing very close behind her, his breath in her hair, his chest against her back.

Hermione closed her eyes, doing her best to summon those details which were relevant to the circumstances. Imogene liked Draco, she was supposed to, so it was okay if she leaned back against him as he stroked his fingers through her hair. It was okay if her breath caught in her throat as he brushed her hair from the back of her neck and touched his lips to her nape. It was okay if she found that she wanted to be near him and that more than anything she wanted him to touch her—_Imogene, _that is, wanted him to touch her.

Draco had been watching her all day, waiting for the chance to kiss her again, to touch her and make sure that all of the time he spent thinking about her wasn't in vain, that he still wanted her, that she still made him tense, that she still made his skin hot when she touched him, and that it was Imogene that he wanted—_Imogene_—and not, as the Amortentia potion would have him think, Hermione Granger.

Imogene it was. She turned to face him and caught his hands in hers, tracing the raw skin at the heels of his hands with her fingers. Her hands were incredibly soft, her touch, gentle. She leaned up to kiss his mouth, drawing his hands to her waist. Draco needed no further encouragement to pull her close, tightening his arms around her. He drew her hard against him, leaning back against the wall behind him.

Hermione moved her hands to his face, palms rasping against his jaw. She drew his mouth more firmly to hers and opened her lips. Draco tensed and made a sound low in his throat. She felt the vibration of it along his jaw which she traced with the tips of her fingers. He crushed her closer, leaning into the wall, which suddenly gave way. Unprepared, Draco stumbled, taking Imogene with him, through a large wooden door which had suddenly appeared in the wall behind him.

Hermione blinked. They were standing in the Room of Requirement, there was no other explanation for it, but she had never seen the room quite like this. It was absolutely huge, the size of a large cathedral with vaulted ceilings and high windows. It was crammed full objects, stacked and stored in towering rows, forming alleys and lanes; a veritable city of forgotten odds and ends. Hermione shook her head, trying to process it all. She was trying to figure out how snogging Draco Malfoy had got her to this.

Draco thoughts were dark. Of all the rooms that he possibly might have needed whilst kissing Imogene, this certainly wasn't one of them. This was the place he'd left only moments before meeting her in the hall. This was the place that haunted his nightmares. This was the place that—each time he stepped into the seventh floor hallway—he hoped never to find again. The Room of Requirement must have a horrible sense of humor if it thought to bring him here.

"Incredible," Hermione said. She stepped forward to inspect the stack of objects closest to her.

"It's the Room of Requirement," Draco said stiffly.

"I know—I mean—I heard about it from some of the students," she replied. "Is it always this… messy?"

"I suppose not. It isn't always anything. It's whatever you need it to be." And suddenly it occurred to him, why he was here.

Draco stepped over a couple of Fanged Frisbees and ducked beneath a heavy, bloodstained ax. He walked several paces and stopped before a broken Vanishing Cabinet, the one Montague had got lost in the previous year. Draco kicked the cabinet. He kicked it savagely and repeatedly until it shattered into splinters.

Hermione watched, silent. She hadn't the least idea what was going on, but she knew better than to say anything.

He was sweating, breathing hard and exhausted from having kicked the cabinet to pieces. At last, he extended a hand in her direction.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here."

**OOO**

He hadn't explained the cabinet. In fact, he hadn't said much at all after that. Hermione was still thinking about it even now, as she lay in bed. _What could it mean?_ She played the scene over again in her head, looking for anything she might have missed, scouring it for details; for it was an undisputed fact that the devil was in the details.


	7. The Snake Charmer

**Chapter 7: The Snake Charmer**

Peter Pettigrew didn't really like the snake. In fact, if he'd had the courage he would've confessed to hating it. Granted, they hadn't necessarily started off the best of chums he and the snake. Their mutual dislike was deep-seated and stemmed from the days when Peter had been required to milk the beast for its venom. If the venom hadn't been for the Master, Nagini never would have allowed it and Peter would not have thought in his wildest dreams to attempt such a feat. If he were required to milk beasts, he much preferred milking cows to terrible reptiles.

The snake, however, was not without her charms. She wound her way sinuously around the boy's chest several times, the cold, dry skin of her scales rasping against his bare flesh. Her svelte head swept up over his shoulder, angling for a better view of his face. She regarded him with her lidless eyes, dark, wide-set and bottomless. A boy could get lost in those eyes.

Nagini flicked her forked tongue against his jaw. When this failed to wake him, she tightened her thick coils around his body, squeezing gently, a subtle yet effective harbinger of the elegant violence to come. When the pressure of her body stopped the expansion of his lungs, the boy's eyes flew open. He coughed and sputtered, sucking in several shallow breaths.

"Awake are we now?" Pettigrew asked.

It took a moment for Draco's eyes to focus on the murine little man standing in front of him. He was small of stature with watery eyes, a balding pate, and prominent, pointed incisors.

"Let young master Malfoy breathe, Nagini," Pettigrew said. "He won't be able to speak otherwise."

Nagini seemed to consider Pettigrew's words a moment before she relaxed the pressure she exerted on Draco's chest. He gasped and drew in a deep breath, hording air in his lungs.

"That's better, isn't it?" Pettigrew said.

Draco simply stared at him. At the moment the concept of better was relative. Yes, it was indeed better to breathe than to suffocate, but it would be better still to be free of the dingy room where he was being held, magically bound to a chair with a giant snake wrapped around him.

Pettigrew walked toward Draco, ducking down so that he could peer directly into his face.

"You're a pretty boy, Master Malfoy; well-made, such finely turned limbs." Pettigrew looked at his own silver hand and curled its fingers into a fist.

Nagini hissed softly at Draco's ear.

"The Dark Lord has great plans for you. It is not wise to disappoint him."

"I'll remember that," Draco said, his voice measured.

"I know you will. You're a clever boy. The Master thinks you're clever as well, which is why he asked me to meet with you."

"You mean he sent his errand boy?"

Pettigrew clucked his disapproval. "Your tongue is sharp, Master Malfoy, but I think you'll find Nagini's to be sharper."

The snake slithered round him with an eerie elasticity, shifting her weight. Draco shuddered faintly in disgust. Suddenly, Nagini's tongue lashed out across his cheek leaving a razor-thin cut in its wake. The sharp sting of her tongue forced Draco's eyes closed. When he opened them Pettigrew had straightened and taken a step back from him.

"I see we understand each other," the former Marauder said. "Now, a few questions if you don't mind—not that you're in any position to mind. The Master wishes to know what happened to the cabinet."

Draco looked away from him. The magical bind that kept him fixed to the chair allowed for very little movement. He could move his face, of course, and turn his head a fraction of an inch to either side, but that was all. He did so now, angling his head to the left and casting his eyes to the floor.

"I don't know," Draco said finally.

"Of course you know, my boy. It was the cabinet you'd been preparing to allow the Death Eaters entrance into Hogwarts. The cabinet was under your care."

Draco remained silent.

"Hmmm, not one to tout your own accomplishments, then? It was brilliant, your plan: the cabinet in the room, the room being unplottable, a loophole in the school's defenses. The Master was quite pleased."

Nagini moved again, circling her lower half around his lap and legs further binding him to the chair.

"Then a few days ago, the egress appears to have been lost and the magic of the cabinet silenced. I'll ask again, what happened to the cabinet?"

Before Draco could answer, Nagini constricted, the pressure so intense, the pain so sudden that he nearly blacked out. His breath stopped. His ribs creaked under the strain. Nagini tightened herself around him to the point where her scales bit into his skin. And then she released him.

Draco gasped for air, but each breath brought the pain searing back through his chest, which he knew was a mass of bruised muscle and damaged skin. The cut on his face began to seep.

"Do you have an answer for me now?" Pettigrew asked.

"I don't know," Draco said. His voice was hushed and raw. "I don't know what happened to the cabinet."

"That is indeed disappointing. I can't go back to the Dark Lord without some sort of answer."

Nagini shifted and Draco flinched.

"Easy, Master Malfoy, she's only teasing you. I've seen her take her prey. If she's hungry, it's usually with the fangs and its over in a flash. But she's not hungry today. Today, I'm afraid she's in a sporting mood, in which case we could be here all night."

Nagini squeezed again. Draco had hardly enough air to scream, but some sound did escape as he felt his ribs give way. It was a broken, strangled sound that even made Pettigrew wince.

"Tell me _something_ boy. I'd hate to see such fine limbs go to waste. Was it Potter? Did the Potter boy break the cabinet?"

"Yes," Draco heard himself agreeing through a haze of pain. "It was Potter."

The snake relaxed her grip and uncoiled herself from Draco's torso.

Pettigrew looked thoughtful for a moment. He folded his arms across his chest.

"It's a pretty lie, boy, and I gave it to you, but you were not supposed to accept it. You were to tell me the truth—the truth that the Master already knows. You broke the cabinet. You kicked it to pieces."

Nagini coiled herself around Draco's left arm.

"You thought perhaps that if you told me something, then I might call her off?"

Draco didn't respond. His breath came in a wheezing rasp from battered lungs.

"But it isn't that way at all. We had the information. There was no need to torture you for it. You were to be punished. Had you been honest from the start you could've perhaps saved the preamble. But now that we've come to it it's an eye for an eye." Pettigrew reached out his silver hand to brush away the damp blond hair that had fallen into Draco's eyes. "Or should I say a hand for a hand."

**OOO**

Ron was shaking Harry. He'd seen his best mate have nightmares in the past, but that didn't seem to make it any easier to watch. Harry lay twisted in his sheets, sweating, panting, at times shouting and at other times mumbling incoherently.

"Harry, wake up, mate!" Ron whispered urgently.

At the sound of his name Harry's eyes sprang open. He was speaking softly.

"Oi! That's enough!" Ron said. "It's right creepy when you do that."

Harry pushed himself up to sitting, kicking away the twisted sheets. He stared blankly into space for a moment, waiting for his breathing to calm and his heart to slow down.

"Do what?" Harry asked. His voice was a scratchy whisper in a dry throat.

Ron blanched and took a step back.

"Come on, Harry. You know I'm not a Parselmouth."

Harry straightened. He realized he'd been speaking in Parseltongue.

"I'm sorry, Ron. I didn't even know I was doing it." He reached for his glasses on the stand next to the bed and rubbed his eyes before he slipped them on. The room fell quickly into focus. Concern was etched crystal clear across Ron's features.

"What did you see?" Ron asked warily.

"Pettigrew and Malfoy," Harry said.

"I knew it! Malfoy's a Death Eater!"

"I don't know, Ron. She was there, the snake. She was torturing Malfoy for information."

"What?"

"It didn't make sense. Something about a cabinet he'd broken." Harry closed his eyes. "I was the snake, Ron."

Ron thought a moment. He sat down on the edge of Harry's bed.

"Harry, you don't think it's real, do you?"

"I don't know. The last time I thought it was real it wasn't and Sirius died."

"Maybe we should tell Dumbledore."

"Tell him what? That I still haven't learned Occlumency? No thanks."

"But you saved my dad, Harry. If you hadn't told… I don't know what would have happened."

Harry sighed. It was times like these when he truly felt the sting of being an orphan. He needed guidance. He needed to be told what to do. He needed to make mistakes and be grounded. He needed to be told that he couldn't borrow the car until he got his grades up. He needed a curfew. He needed a role model. He needed the decision made for him.

In the silence of the boys' dormitory, he had none of these things, so he made a choice as best he could.

"We don't tell Dumbledore," he said. "We don't even know if it's real, and if it is… well, it's Malfoy, isn't it? It's not your dad."

**OOO**

The Great Hall was noisy. There was the usual clatter of plates and utensils as dinner began. The chatter among the students, however, was louder and less formal than usual as was their dress. It was Saturday evening, the weekend, and the atmosphere was a bit more relaxed. Even Hermione looked less frazzled where she sat next to Harry and Ron at the Gryffindor table.

Ginny Weasley's brassy laugh rang out as she squeezed on to the bench next to Hermione. She was wearing a ratty Chudley Cannons t-shirt, which from the looks of it had originally belonged to Ron. Ginny had made it her own however, having cut the neck out of it and paired it with her Quidditch breeks, which Harry was pretty sure she wasn't supposed to be wearing off of the pitch—not that he was going to say anything about it.

Ginny greeted Hermione and the older girl couldn't help but smile. She could count on Ginny to catch her up on all the latest goings-on at Hogwarts. Some might call it gossip, but Hermione preferred to think of it as research of a sort. It was like the time she'd come across a copy of _The Sun_ in her mother's things and spent entirely too much time leafing through its tawdry pages strictly as a means of acquiring knowledge. It was important to know what her peers were thinking and talking about. Ginny seemed to know everyone and everything. She was the perfect agent of Hermione's research. Plus, she had style.

"Didn't see you at Hogsmeade," Ginny said.

"I had some reading to catch up on," Hermione replied.

"Ran into Fred and George at Zonko's. They asked about you. Wanted to know if you're married to Ron yet."

Hermione choked, guilty and embarrassed all at once.

Ron broke off from his conversation with Harry long enough to turn and thump her on the back. He succeeded in dislodging the pesky bit of shepherd's pie which had caught in her throat. Then he turned back to Harry as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Not married yet," she said.

"You sure?" Ginny asked. "Nothing says marriage like a disinterested Heimlich maneuver."

"I hate to break it to you Ginny, but your brother thinks he's in love with a Veela."

"Doesn't everyone?" Ginny said.

"Point taken."

Hermione's eyes drifted over to the Slytherin table. She hadn't bothered with the golem. It wasn't such a big deal if Imogene missed a meal today. Plenty of students made other plans on the weekend. She was disappointed however, when she noticed that Malfoy wasn't there. The table was somber without him. A hush seemed to have settled over the Slytherin students.

Ginny followed Hermione's gaze. "Trouble in Slytherin house," she said. "Nobody's seen Malfoy since we left for Hogsmeade this morning."

"Really?" Hermione asked, feigning casual interest. Ron and Harry's interest wasn't casual at all. The two boys stopped their conversation and turned to look at Ginny.

"They're saying that he's disappeared," Ginny explained.

Harry and Ron exchanged a look. It wasn't lost on Hermione.

"What?" she asked the two of them.

"Nothing," Harry said.

"That wasn't nothing," Hermione insisted.

"Harry had a dream about Malfoy getting attacked by a snake," Ron said reluctantly.

"What!" Hermione nearly leapt out of her chair. "Did you tell Dumbledore?"

Harry shrugged.

"What does that mean, Harry?" She didn't like the way that this story was shaping up.

"I didn't say anything to Dumbledore," he answered. "It was just a dream. I've had plenty of those. It's not real."

"Not real? How can you know that?"

"Lay off, Hermione," Harry warned. He could feel his chest getting tight. He didn't want to think about Sirius. "Don't start."

"No, Harry. Think, for once! Why would You-Know—why would Voldemort send you false information about Malfoy getting attacked? It's Malfoy! What's the point? You're not going to go charging to his rescue!"

The table fell silent.

"So you're saying it's real?" Ron asked finally.

Hermione nodded, embarrassed to find herself on the verge of tears.

"Or maybe not," Ginny said. She pointed toward the entrance to the Great Hall where Draco Malfoy was walking slowly toward the Slytherin table.

"He looks okay to me," Ron said.

Harry turned to Hermione. He didn't say it but it was clearly written on his features: _I told you so._

"Strange that he's wearing his robes," Ginny remarked.

"Well, we can't all go around cutting the necks out of our brother's favorite t-shirts," Ron said.

"You gave it to me, Ron. It doesn't fit you anymore."

"Doesn't fit you either," Ron grumbled. "It's a bit tight." Ginny rolled her eyes. Ron had just reminded her that growing up in a house with six brothers was almost enough to put her off men for good. She glanced at Harry. _Almost._

Hermione knew that she should apologize but she couldn't quite find the words. Instead she sat in silence for the rest of the meal, listening to Ginny relate a series of rumors concerning Professor Flitwick and Madam Hooch which she had evidently learned from Moaning Myrtle. It was a great distraction, but not great enough to keep her eyes from drifting over to the Slytherin table every now and then.

Draco looked fine ostensibly. She'd almost convinced herself that she was worried for nothing when he got up and, having finished with dinner in record time, made his way across the Great Hall. He paused briefly at the hall's entrance, leaning with his right hand propped against the archway, before he walked off.

No one else seemed to notice, but Hermione had. In an instant she was on her feet.

**OOO**

Draco had no memory of having blacked out. When he came to Granger was leaning over him. _What in the hell was that about?_ Had she hexed him? No matter. He could see down her shirt.

It was the last thought he had before the pain in his left arm overwhelmed him and his eyes slipped closed.

**OOO**

Hermione slapped him in the face, hard, as if she'd heard what he'd been thinking. She hadn't, of course. She was simply concerned to see him lose consciousness, especially given the extent of his injuries. She'd opened his robes and the damage had made her nauseous. Blood seeped through his shirt in several places and there was a crude bandage wrapped around his left arm. Most of the bones of his hand were crushed, others were misaligned; and some of them punched through the skin in places.

Hermione carefully unwrapped the bandage on his arm afraid of what she might find. A freshly minted Dark Mark, perhaps? Instead there were puncture marks, two of them, evenly spaced. She remembered Ron's description of Harry's dream. They were fang marks from a snake.

She slapped Draco again, twice. His head lolled to the left, but his eyes opened a fraction of an inch.

"We have to get you to Madam Pomfrey," she whispered urgently.

Draco's lips were moving, but there was barely any sound. Hermione ducked her head close so that she could hear.

"No… Hospital Wing," he said.

"Then Snape at least. You've some sort of snake bite. There could be poison in it."

"No, no Snape… no Snape."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest but realized that it would be pointless. His eyes had slid shut again. She drew her wand and flicked it toward the unconscious boy in front of her causing his body to rise into the air.

**OOO**

For the briefest of moments there was only warmth. It spread along the right side of his body, chafing heat into his fingers, arms and face. It was a perfect moment, an easy moment and it wouldn't last. Draco's eyes opened to fine slits, pale grey irises barely visible beneath heavy lids. As his vision fell into focus, so, too, did the pain. It sharpened itself against his ribs and spiraled along his left arm.

An ordinary boy would have cried out, but the son of Lucius Malfoy knew better. He'd been taught to bear it; to endure even when the mere act of drawing breath sent pain rioting through his ribs and lungs. He held himself immobile, trying as best he could to minimize the pain.

He realized that he lay on a floor, a carpet beneath him and a fireplace several feet away, the source of the warmth he'd felt earlier. From what he could see there was no furniture in the room, only books. There were uneven stacks of them which littered the carpet. A quick glance at the titles revealed that they were an eclectic mix. _Herpetology: A Handbook_, _The Mediwitch's Guide to Broken Bones, _and_ Know Your Skele-Grow _were among the tomes stacked haphazardly around the room.

Imogene sat on the floor by the fire, a large, dusty book propped open in front of her. Draco watched as her eyes scanned the page. She had her wand drawn and she appeared to be tracing circles in the air with its tip. She was practicing, he realized, learning a spell of some sort.

"Where are we?" he asked, his throat dry.

She jumped, dropping her wand. "You're not dead," she said.

"You sound disappointed."

"Not at all. I was hoping I hadn't killed you." Hermione unfolded her legs and stood stretching her arms out behind her. The hem of her black t-shirt rode up baring her stomach. She tugged it back down. That was the problem with Imogene's wardrobe. Most of it was darker, and tighter than Hermione's. On the whole it was a bit more daring and, as a result, ill-suited to nursing duties.

She walked over to Draco and sat down beside him, conjuring a glass of water for him to drink. Draco lifted his head slightly and took several sips from the glass. When he was finished, he lowered his head back to the floor, fatigued from the simple action.

"We're in the Room of Requirement," she said, finally answering his question. "I was thinking that I needed a place to hide you, some place quiet… and warm because I knew that I was going to have to… undress you." Hermione stopped, slightly embarrassed.

Draco watched her, oddly moved by the blush that colored her cheeks. He was indeed naked under the sheet which lay over him.

"For medical purposes, of course," she added.

"Of course," Draco said drily.

"I had to figure out the extent of your injuries."

"As any proper Mediwitch would."

"Now you're mocking me."

Draco fought the urge to laugh, knowing it would hurt. How he could even think about laughing at a time like this was incomprehensible. Nothing about his situation was funny, but here he was teasing her and thinking about ways to get her to move closer to him and suppressing the chuckle which had risen unbidden to his throat.

"Go ahead, laugh," Hermione said, suddenly angry. "Laugh and undo everything I've tried to do these past three days! If you weren't so bloody injured I think I'd choke you to death!" She sprang to her feet. Draco watched as she began to pace the room angrily. "Do you have any idea what I've had to do? Of course, you don't! You've been unconscious! I had no idea what happened to you. None! You wouldn't let me take you to Madam Pomfrey! You wouldn't let me take you to Snape! So I had to do it. I had to figure out how to heal you. You're lucky I'm so bloody _smart!_ You're lucky there are books about this sort of thing! _You're lucky those books weren't in the Restricted Section!_"

Draco blinked. "Granger," he said.

Hermione stopped in her tracks, convinced that the polyjuice potion had suddenly failed. "What?" she managed to say.

"I told Granger not to take me to the Hospital Wing. She found me."

Hermione closed her eyes, relieved that he hadn't seen through her, that he hadn't just called her by her true name. Yet she was faced with another issue. How could he possibly remember who'd found him in the hall? He'd been near delirious at the time.

"_I _found you. Me, Imogene," she said, hoping that he wouldn't press the matter. "You must have been having some sort of fever dream." Hermione turned and walked back toward him, her earlier anger having evaporated somewhat in the face of her fear of being discovered. She sank to her knees next to him. "I think I'm offended that you've been dreaming of some other girl."

Draco moved his good arm, or at least, the arm that was in better shape relatively speaking. His stretched out his fingers and brushed them against her hand.

"No other girl," he said.

She softened in spite of herself and looked away. "I did the best I could. Your ribs were broken. Your left hand was crushed. I tried everything I could think of, everything in these books. There may still be some scarring. You should let me take you to Snape."

"I can't go to him," Draco said. "If I go to him I'll have to tell him what happened."

"What happened?" she asked.

Draco's eyes grew dark and distant. "I did something I shouldn't have."

Hermione thought about the strange incident with the cabinet. She had a feeling that perhaps it was somehow connected, but she wasn't sure how.

"Not much of a snake charmer, are you?"

He turned his eyes to her. They were hard. "What do you mean?" he asked evenly.

"The fang marks on your arm. You were bitten. Perhaps because you did something you shouldn't have."

Draco closed his eyes. He heard Pettigrew's words in his ears: _Nagini has given you her mark. When it heals, you'll receive His mark. You will obey Him._

No, he wasn't much of a snake charmer. A snake charmer would get his way. He would beguile the serpent and gain his freedom. He would not simply obey.

Draco opened his eyes and looked at her, a decision made. She didn't know it, but he had chosen.

He had chosen disobedience.

**OOO**

He was sleeping. Several strands of pale blond hair had fallen on to his forehead. Hermione resisted the urge to brush them from his face. She didn't want to risk waking him. It had been a long day. The fire was beginning to die down in the Room of Requirement. She knew that she should head back. They'd be looking for her in the girls' dormitory. She didn't want to leave him.

It couldn't hurt to stay just a bit longer. Hermione busied herself inspecting the bandages on his left arm and hand. They were fine as she well knew. She'd changed them recently. She carefully lowered his arm on top of the sheet which lay across the middle of his chest. He appeared to be resting peacefully.

Surely he wouldn't mind if she just lay down next to him. Just for a moment. Hermione stretched out on the carpet beside him. There she was lying next to him. She stared up at the ceiling. She could hear him breathing. His breaths were deep and even. He was truly asleep. It was okay then if she turned on her side to face him.

Hermione looked at him as he slept; the tight blond fringe of his lashes sealing his lids, the razor-thin cut across his cheekbone. She reached out with the tips of her fingers to touch his face. She traced his lips softly and kissed the corner of his mouth. She felt silly for it somehow and turned away from him.

Draco was perhaps not quite as asleep as she might have thought. He felt her lips on his face and felt her shift away. In response, he gathered her close, drawing her back along the length of his body. He turned his face into her hair and carefully moved his bandaged left arm around her waist.

It hurt. It hurt to hold her, but it hurt not to. He'd taken pain for so much less than this. He could take this pain. He could take this pain for her. It was worth it.

**OOO**

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. Please keep those reviews coming!


	8. The Book Ambush

**Chapter 8: The Book Ambush**

He was thinking that if he just pulled the neck of her t-shirt then it might stretch and bare a bit of her shoulder. The material was soft—some sort of cotton. It wouldn't put up much of a fight. He was in no shape to fight with the arm as it was, so it was good, then, that the fabric would give, that any conflict would be avoided and he'd be free to place his fingers on the soft flesh behind her ear, drag them lightly along the curve of her neck to her round bare shoulder and never break contact with her skin.

He thought that maybe if he could touch her, then he might figure it out. There was something about Imogene, something behind her eyes. There were moments when he thought maybe he'd glimpsed it, but he couldn't be sure. Whatever it was, she kept it well and truly hidden. There were times when he hated her for it, for the care that she took to guard her secret from him. There were other times when it drew him, when it drove him to know. _What would happen if she let it go? Would she—could she—let him in on her secret? _Would that she could.

Draco opened his eyes, blinking, coming out of sleep, having thought himself around to the point of wakefulness. She was no longer lying next to him. He suspected that she might be elsewhere in the room, sitting by the fireplace perhaps, and he turned—stiff, cold, his body sore—in that direction.

The figure by the fireplace moved quickly in a rustle of dark robes.

"Cover yourself," said Severus Snape. Startled, Draco pushed himself up to sitting. Snape tossed a cloak to him. Draco gathered the cloak around himself, suddenly aware that the fire in fireplace had died. He shivered.

Snape rose and with a perfunctory nod at the fireplace, kindled a new fire. Draco felt the heat of it on his face, thankful that it might hide the heat of his own embarrassment. After all, it wasn't every day that he was caught naked in the Room of Requirement by his Head of House.

The professor's face was impassive, however, as he crossed the room and knelt down next to Draco. He found Draco's bandaged arm beneath the cloak and silently began to inspect his wounds. Snape's ministrations were quick and efficient. Within minutes he'd cast several spells which allowed him to re-bandage the arm, splint the hand and bind the boy's ribs. Draco's face paled as he felt the bone, sinew and damaged tissue inside him convulse and begin to knit. It was a curious feeling, one that was fraught with the sharp pain of healing. Snape produced a vial from the folds of his robes and offered it to Draco. "For the pain," he said.

Draco removed the stopper from the vial and drank the potion. It was bitter, but within seconds he felt heat blossom in his chest and the soreness in his limbs began to ease.

Snape collected the vial and stepped back to a comfortable distance. His eyes raked over Draco once more, searching for any wounds he might have missed. Satisfied that the necessary curative measures had been taken, he folded his arms across his chest tucking his hands in the sleeves of his robes.

"I asked her not to tell you," Draco said.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "It matters not. I have a great deal of Veritaserum at my disposal."

Draco narrowed his eyes. The thought of Snape drugging Imogene for information left him feeling nauseous. He swallowed.

"There was, however, little she could tell me concerning how your injuries came about. That chore is left to you."

Draco stared at Snape in stony silence. The older wizard returned his gaze unflinchingly. Within minutes it was clear that the contest of wills would get them nowhere.

Snape spoke again. "Do not think that I am here out of mere curiosity. I am here as one who would aid you in your cause, but you must tell me what has happened."

"There is nothing to say," Draco said. And really there wasn't. He had had enough of interrogations and he wouldn't entertain this one.

"I doubt that. Nothing you _want _to say perhaps." And suddenly, without warning Snape was there prodding at the edges of Draco's mind. It was an almost gentle effort, one designed merely to telegraph his intentions. If Draco wouldn't tell him, then he would sift his thoughts until he found the answers he sought.

Draco let Snape in, beckoned him down the dark hall of his mind, to the first door left purposely ajar. Behind the door stood a young boy no older than seven or eight. His pale blonde hair lay damp and clinging to his forehead and his brow was furrowed in concentration. The boy's father turned to him, wand outstretched. "_Leglimens!_" he said. The boy squirmed and fought to repel the attack. "Good, Draco," his father said. "You're growing stronger every day."

Abruptly the door slammed shut and Snape was forced out of the dark hall of Draco's mind.

"Impressive," Snape said. "Lucius has no doubt taught you well."

"He is an unforgiving tutor," Draco said. "His lessons are never forgotten."

Snape straightened, drew his heels together and inclined his head in a stiff and formal bow. "May they serve you well," the professor said, before he re-doubled his efforts and forced entry into Draco's thoughts.

Draco's eyes slipped closed—the better to focus. Snape was quick and cunning. He stormed the hall of Draco's memories on a guided mission. The professor was goal-oriented, which made him a vastly different Leglimens than Lucius Malfoy. Lucius had sought to humiliate him, taking possession of any memory and using the act of possession as evidence of his son's failure. Snape, however, in his quest for a specific memory, discarded those which were of no consequence to him.

Draco saw his advantage. He could slow Snape's progress by feeding him useless memories, forcing him to examine them in order to discard them. Draco could buy himself time to lock away those memories of value by flooding Snape with senseless thoughts. He unlocked doors along the hall, allowing memories to slip forth.

It was a tricky tactic. Sometimes the jumble of thoughts led to confusion. Draco weakened under the mental strain. He found himself hunched over where he sat on the floor of the Room of Requirement, sweat beaded on his brow.

Snape had seen such tactics before. He knew that the sudden flood of memories would be of no interest to him; they were too easily offered. He simply ignored them as he continued his way down the hall of Draco's thoughts.

Draco was good, but not quite good enough. Perhaps it was his youth, or a certain naïveté, that caused him to believe that his Head of House would observe the rules of fair play. One would have thought that Lucius Malfoy's son would know better. One would have thought that he would assume the worst in everyone, especially the black-haired Death Eater who stood before him.

Snape took two steps toward Draco where he sat on the floor. It was time for the professor to play his trump and bring this game of dueling minds to a swift and satisfying end. He offered up an image of his own, injected it into the midst of Draco's thoughts.

Draco's thoughts stuttered, creating a breach in his mental defenses. It allowed Snape to glimpse the following memories in quick succession—Pettigrew, Nagini, the Vanishing Cabinet, and Imogene's shoulder—before Draco's focus was drawn to the image which Snape had provided, an image of Hermione Granger.

It was all that the former Potions Master needed to know.

**OOO**

This visit to the Headmaster's office was different. Albus hadn't offered him candy. The breach in decorum was enough to give Snape pause. He never accepted the candy. He didn't like candy. But the offer was the way of things, it was ritual. There was comfort in ritual; soothing in its familiarity, reassuring in its repetition. That comfort may have been cold, paltry even, but it was all the comfort ever offered Severus Snape.

Dumbledore looked tired where he sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Mr. Malfoy is healing nicely then?" the Headmaster asked.

"Quite."

"Youth are resilient."

Snape nodded.

"How did Pettigrew get to him?"

"Hogsmeade. We were careless."

"And she found him?"

"Once he was returned to the castle, yes."

"I wonder how she found him."

"I assume she was following him," Snape said cautiously. "They are often together."

Dumbledore's eyes were sharp. He didn't miss the tension around Snape's mouth. "It makes you… uncomfortable Severus?"

Snape hesitated before giving an answer. "No."

The idea of Draco and Imogene together did not discomfit him in the least. It was, after all, according to plan. It was the thought that Draco might be drawn to Hermione Granger which gave him pause. He had indeed tested this theory twice over and was not pleased with the results. If Draco developed an attraction to Hermione, it could only be because he sensed similarities between Hermione and Imogene. Such similarities were indicative of the weakness of the deception and it was the deception which mattered. It was Imogene. Imogene was all; Hermione merely a prop.

Snape did not share these thoughts. He needn't. He would simply manage them. Albus had given him authority and with it he exercised discretion.

Dumbledore regarded him carefully. "One last question, Severus: are they linked, Draco and Imogene?"

"It is as of yet uncertain," Snape answered with the utmost care, "but I've no doubt they will be."

**OOO**

Draco Malfoy was thinking about books. There had been stacks of them in the Room of Requirement. No furniture, just books. Imogene had never struck him as particularly bookish, and yet she seemed to know her way around a book or two. It was perhaps what had drawn him to the library, all this thinking about books.

When it came to books, the library, of course, didn't disappoint. Tall shelves filled the room creating cavernous aisles and alleys of them. Draco wandered through the stacks, his eyes registering but barely seeing the titles of the dusty tomes which closed ranks on the shelves around him. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, and so he ambled desultorily, errant as a knight in need of a decent quest.

One aisle led him to the next. The stacks were nearly deserted, but he should have guessed that eventually he would find _her_ here. Granger stood in the middle of the aisle, her back to him. He could see, however, that she was hunched over an impossibly large volume which required the strength of both of her arms to support.

Draco walked toward her. She was in the way. If she didn't move, he would shoulder her aside. How did she think she could just stand there blocking the entire aisle with her reading? Granger was insufferable that way. Everything about her was insufferable. Her hair—_absolutely_ insufferable. It lay dark and curly around her shoulders, partway down her back. There was entirely too much of it. _Insufferable._

So why he found his fingers wound gently around several soft, insufferable strands, one could only guess. He'd walked right up to her with every intention of pushing past her but something had made him stop. He stood behind her, close; closer than he should have been; close enough to touch her hair. Hermione hadn't noticed. She was engrossed in the book which lay open in her arms. It wasn't until she moved to turn a page that she ducked her head and felt that her hair had snagged in something. Once she determined that that something was Draco Malfoy, and that he was standing very close, practically breathing down her neck, she nearly dropped the heavy text that she'd been reading.

Startled, Hermione overbalanced and leaned against a shelf to keep from falling. It was a bad idea, but she couldn't have known that. She couldn't have known that a large and rather ornery tome by the name of _Braithwaite's Modern Bestiary_ was itching for a fight, simply waiting for an unsuspecting student to lean in its direction. It leapt from the shelf and flapped its fanged covers ominously, fastening itself to the sleeve of Hermione's sweater with a baleful growl.

Hermione yelped and dropped the large book she'd been holding dangerously close to the tips of Draco Malfoy's expensive dragon-hide loafers. She jerked her wand from her pocket, aimed at the aggressive volume gnawing at her sleeve and muttered a spell which slapped the book and sent it flying back to the shelf, mewling like a wounded kneazle.

Somewhere during the confusion Draco had let go of her hair. He stood watching her now as she inspected the damage to the sleeve of her sweater. She poked her fingers into the sizable hole torn by the angry book. Her shoulders began to shake and Draco tensed thinking that she was about to cry, until he realized that she was laughing soundlessly. In less than a moment, sound bubbled forth from her lips, at first a quiet giggle, then a more raucous, rolling tide of laughter. Hermione doubled over laughing.

The situation was absolutely ridiculous and not without its irony. She spent so much time in the library, so much time with books, that she'd finally been attacked by one. Ron would say that it was a sign. Even the books were telling her to get out.

Hermione couldn't stop laughing. Without even realizing it she placed a hand on Draco's chest to steady herself. She laughed so hard that her sides ached and there were tears welling at the corners of her eyes.

Draco knew that she'd clearly gone daft, knew that this was most likely not a laughing matter, but there was something about her laughter that was contagious. And he, whose lips were prone to smirk at any given moment, realized that he was caught up in something beyond his control. He should have known it the moment she touched his chest. A large grin spread across his features. He chuckled softly.

Finally, Hermione's laughter began to subside. She managed to straighten up and when she did, Draco saw that her face was flushed and that she was smiling brilliantly at him. There were several fly-away strands of hair in her face and he reached out to tuck them behind her ear. He wasn't sure why he did it. He couldn't understand.

As soon as he did, her face fell. Something like fear crowded in around her eyes. Her mouth tightened and she pulled her hand from his chest. Hermione took a step back from him, suddenly closed off.

Draco was stung by the abrupt change in her behavior. He couldn't get over the way she'd smiled at him moments ago, like she _knew_ him. And now she regretted it. Now they were strangers. It angered him, so it was with peevish annoyance in his voice that he asked, "What the hell were you smiling at me for, Granger?"

Hermione flinched. His words had struck her. "I thought I was someone else," she said, in a voice that was less than audible.

"What?" He couldn't hear her.

"I thought you were someone else," she answered, raising her voice.

"Don't be ridiculous. Who else would I be?"

_Who else, indeed._ He was staring down at her, grey eyes sharp, pale blonde hair falling against his forehead. The question was rhetorical, of course, but Hermione answered anyway. "Clearly _not _who you are."

"Weasley, then? Is that who you thought I was?"

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

"What do _I_ want?" It was a funny question, one that made him step forward toward her, or at least try to. His foot connected with the book she'd dropped earlier. The large, dusty volume sat on the floor between them. Instead of kicking it from his path, Draco stood on top of it. He was standing nearly on top of her now; even more intimidating as he stared down at her with the added height of the book beneath his feet.

"Yes, what do you want?" she asked, feeling very small. "You were the one lurking about in the stacks. Was it your plan to have me attacked by books? Thinking that maybe with me out of the way, you might be the top student at Hogwarts?"

"That's absurd. You think I followed you here, all the while planning some sort of …book ambush for top marks?"

"I don't know what to think."

Draco realized that he didn't either. He'd come to the library thinking about Imogene and the books in the Room of Requirement. What he found was Granger, who had a way of insinuating herself into his thoughts of late. He remembered her in the hall, leaning over him. A fever dream, Imogene had said, but the image stuck with him and it had a certain quality, a certain sharp-edged veracity that he couldn't seem to shake.

He looked down at her. _What did Granger know?_ He supposed that she was the only one who could tell him the truth of it. Either she'd been there or she hadn't. Either he'd dreamed it or he hadn't. And that he, Draco Malfoy, would dream of Granger of all people was patently preposterous.

_Look at her._ She was no Imogene. She was no Pansy Parkinson for that matter. Imogene had a sleek, sharp beauty that seemed to knife through him and cut the breath from his lungs. It was immediate and stunning. Pansy, on the other hand, wasn't quite the eyeful that Imogene was, but she carried herself with the Parkinson family grace centered at her hips, which did a great deal in terms of making her attractive to the opposite sex.

Granger had none of these things, but as he watched her, he realized that there was a quiet _something_ about her. It was hard to identify. She didn't add up, didn't have the formulaic beauty so easily read in the faces of other girls. Her hair was too curly, too soft. Her eyes were a peculiar shade of brown which seemed to elude adjectives. Her lips were perhaps fuller than they should have been. Nothing about her made sense.

Draco caught her by her upper arms, trying to figure her out. He pulled her in close, his face just inches from hers.

"You found me in the hall," he said.

Hermione blanched. She lowered her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He released her suddenly and stepped down off of the book he'd been standing on. He picked it up, dusted it off and handed it back to her, but not before he noticed the title printed on its leather-bound cover: _An Anthology of Weresnakes_ by Zacharias Winchell.

"Reading about snakes, Granger?"

"Weresnakes," she corrected. "Largely theoretical creatures not yet proven to exist. Winchell seems to think of the weresnake as a metaphor for the divided mind as opposed to a physical alter-ego." She stopped. "I… have a project," she offered by way of explanation.

"So the snake-man doesn't exist?"

She seemed to sag as she closed her eyes briefly. Finally, she straightened and lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. "The snake-man does exist. He isn't a metaphor. He walks and breathes, lives and eats. And sometimes," she said quietly, "he loves."

It was Draco who took a step back from her. He had to. Suddenly, Hermione Granger had made sense to him.

**OOO**

She was having what Muggles might call a panic attack, or so she imagined. Hermione sat hunched over on the edge of the bed with her head between her knees trying desperately to breathe. Her heart was knocking against her ribs, threatening to come up through her throat along with the remains of her dinner.

She couldn't say what had caused the acute, claustrophobic sense of terror which had welled up in her mere moments after she'd taken the polyjuice potion. She only knew that once she'd reached the Slytherin girls' dormitory she could barely breathe.

Hermione couldn't do this anymore. She was tired of becoming Imogene and frankly it wasn't worth it. What had she learned of Draco or any of the Death Eaters? What did she know about the Dark Lord's plans? Absolutely nothing. She'd gained nothing from this except a curious attachment to Draco, an attachment that she had neither wanted nor desired, an attachment which could never ever really be hers, an attachment predicated on a lie.

Her breathing slowed. She caught sight of her hands. They weren't even her hands really. They were Imogene's. And she hated them.

She thought about telling him the truth. In the library she'd almost wanted him to know. She thought that maybe he would figure it out; maybe he would guess the way of things. But who could guess such a thing? Who could guess that one girl was another? Who would dream that she lived a shared existence?

Hermione sat up, drawing her head out from between her knees, only to collapse sideways across the bed.

Only a fool could dream such a thing, and only a madman could guess.

**OOO**

Pansy Parkinson sat with her arms folded across her chest. Her head was tilted slightly, allowing her hair in its blunt cut bob to fall forward toward the point of her chin. There was something dark and decidedly witchy about Pansy. It was no doubt what Draco had liked about her; well, that, and the fact that she liked to play things fast and loose.

Draco stared at her where she sat across from him on a couch in the Slytherin common room. They hadn't truly spoken in months and they weren't really speaking now. They were talking at each other. It was his fault he supposed, though he couldn't say he was sorry for it. He'd let things go too far the night of the Yule Ball, a fact which he decided to blame on Madam Hooch's Merry Wives of Wassail Punch.

"Well, is she in the dormitory or not?" he asked.

Pansy watched him steadily. One brow leapt up on to her forehead in a perfect arch. "And if she is?"

"I'd like to speak with her."

"And what am I to do about that?"

"You could ask her to come down."

"Don't wizards have owls for that sort of thing?" she asked, sounding bored.

"What is it that you want, Pansy?"

She leaned back against the couch and smiled as if the answer were simple. "Death to blood traitors," she said sweetly, "and to make up for lost time."

Draco leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. He didn't have time for this, but he found himself in the regrettable position of needing Pansy's help. He couldn't go into the girls' dormitory and she could. It was as simple as that. "How does one make up for lost time?" he said.

"I thought you'd never ask," she replied. Pansy stood and walked over to sit down next to Draco on the couch opposite hers. She rested a hand on the back of his neck and stroked her fingers through the hair at his nape. "I've missed you, Draco."

Draco sat very still. He knew precisely what Pansy's gambit would be.

"You owe me," she began softly, "a bit of togetherness."

Draco thought carefully about his response. It wouldn't do to wound Pansy's vanity; truly, it was all she had. "Ah, honestly, Pan, I thought you'd moved on."

"Sweet of you to say, Draco, but surely we meant more to each other than that."

Draco didn't answer.

"So you will meet me here in the common room after dinner on Friday night. I will be wearing something pretty. You will take me out."

"Where shall I take you?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"I don't know. Surely I don't have to do everything in this relationship."

Draco closed his eyes. When he opened them, Pansy was leaning very close to his face.

"Agreed?" she asked, tightening her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. Draco stiffened. He would never hit a girl, but he wasn't above subjecting one to the cruciatus curse.

"Agreed," he said, grabbing her wrist. He squeezed the collection of delicate bones until her fingers released his hair.

Pansy stood, her face flushed with excitement.

"I'll send her down," she said.

**OOO**

Hermione woke to the feeling that someone was staring at her. Sure enough, Pansy was stretched out beside her on the bed with her head propped up on her elbow. Startled, Hermione pushed herself into a sitting position. She must've dozed off. Having just woken up she felt particularly vulnerable, especially with the way Pansy was grinning at her—like the kneazle who'd gotten the canary.

"Draco's in the common room," Pansy said. "He wants to see you, Imogene."

Hermione eyed Pansy warily. Ordinarily the news that Draco was looking for Imogene would have tightened Pansy's face into a scowl. The fact that she was smiling didn't bode well at all. Nonetheless, Hermione stood and had walked all the way to the door before Pansy spoke again.

"I think he wants to break up with you."

Hermione stopped.

"After all, we're going out on Friday night."

Hermione turned to look at Pansy, gauging the truth of her words. Pansy was manipulative, devious and she was clearly enjoying herself; that is, until she saw Hermione turn and walk straight over to the wardrobe.

"What are you doing?" Pansy asked.

"Well, if he's going to break up with me, I can't go looking like this," Hermione said, gesturing to the Slytherin uniform that she was wearing. She opened the wardrobe and began rifling through Imogene's things. "I have to wear something that will change his mind."

Pansy paled. The expression of smug satisfaction she'd been wearing only moments ago drained from her features. Hermione couldn't even take delight in it, she was far too angry.

She'd never liked Pansy Parkinson and even that was putting it mildly. From the moment they'd met first year, Hermione had found her to be nothing but a horrid, mean-spirited creature completely devoid of any kind word or feeling. One of the toughest things about being Imogene had been pretending not to hate Pansy on sight. Fortunately, Pansy had given Imogene a reason to dislike her—their supposed rivalry for Draco Malfoy's affections.

Hermione let her hand drift over the clothes in the wardrobe, using the fleeting reactions on Pansy's face to determine what she would wear. The tighter the line of Pansy's lips, the more inclined Hermione was to select the particular item of clothing which had provoked that response. It wasn't until she reached for a particular dress, and saw a small vein pop out in Pansy's forehead, that she knew she had found the right thing to wear.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Pansy said. "I mean, if he doesn't like you, then he doesn't like you. A dress won't change his mind."

"You're right," Hermione said. "The dress alone won't do it. I'll probably have to do something else." She unzipped her skirt, let it drop to the floor and stepped out of it. "Any suggestions, Pansy?"

Pansy narrowed her eyes and clamped her mouth shut.

It was Hermione's turn to feel a certain sense of satisfaction. Pansy would never have been threatened by Hermione Granger, but Imogene was another story. She was taller than Pansy, prettier, more worldly. She was also smarter. And Pansy knew it. Hermione decided to press her advantage.

She turned her back to Pansy as she stripped off her sweater—not that she had any qualms about changing in front of her rival. After all, it wasn't her body, it was Imogene's. Let Pansy see what Draco would see and let her eat her heart out. Hermione peeled off her shirt and tie and slipped into the dress. She ran a brush through her hair in several long, powerful strokes and then, without looking in a mirror, made her way to the door.

"Don't wait up," she said.

**OOO**

Draco was sitting on the couch when he finally heard footsteps coming from the girls' dormitory. He'd been waiting a while. He was beginning to think that Pansy had gone back on her word when Imogene emerged from the stairwell into the common room.

He blinked. He'd seen Imogene before, but not quite like this. Usually she was wearing her uniform, but tonight she was wearing some sort of dress, no more than a shift really, dark in color, maybe black. It had no sleeves, just thin straps, which divided the expanse of skin between her neck and shoulders. _She's gone and done it_, he thought. She'd whet the sharp edge of her beauty and turned it on him. It stung him, cutting and keen.

Hermione saw Draco's reaction, the way his eyes darkened. She hadn't been nervous until that very moment. She'd been so angry with Pansy, so busy trying to intimidate her that she hadn't quite thought the whole thing through. In theory she knew what would happen, but in fact she wasn't prepared for the way he looked at her. She felt her thin layer of bravado grow brittle and fall away in flakes, leaving her exposed. She had to act before she lost her nerve.

"You wanted to speak to me?" she said. "Come on." Hermione grasped Draco's hand and led him toward the entrance to the common room. She could hear Pansy behind her; Pansy, who'd followed her from the dorm; who couldn't help herself; who, like any rival, could not resist the chance to see the competition play out.

Hermione spared one quick glance over her shoulder as she and Draco left the common room. Pansy Parkinson was the last thing she saw; her pug face watching them anxiously from the shadows.

**OOO**

This chapter is dedicated to Paddington. May you never be saddled with a boring book ever again.

Thanks for reading!


	9. Useless Things

**Chapter 9: Useless Things**

"The gamekeeper's hut," Draco said. It hung in the air between them like a question, though he hadn't stated it as such.

Imogene shrugged. "You said you wanted to talk some place private."

"I was thinking the Astronomy Tower or perhaps the Owlery."

"The Owlery's not really private," she said. "There are all those…owls."

Draco's lips quirked into a half grin. "Mmm, and the owls are so chatty, don't you think? They can hardly keep a secret."

It was Imogene's turn to grin. "Might have something to do with the fact that they're messengers."

"Regardless," he said, "they can't be trusted." Draco turned, taking in the interior of the hut. It was sparsely furnished and a bit dingy, but the fire in the huge stone hearth went a long way toward making the place more inviting. What little furniture there was loomed large around them; an overscale table and chairs and a formidable bed with a patchwork quilt large enough to sleep a half-giant.

Draco had been here before for detention in the Forbidden Forest and for class, if you could call Care of Magical Creatures a class. He couldn't remember ever seeing the inside of the hut, however. He should have guessed that it would reflect its owner, a bit rough and homespun. He looked up at the dusty rafters which supported the roof, noticing ruddy brown stains along the beams.

Imogene followed his gaze. "That's where Hagrid keeps pheasant and other game birds once he's gone hunting…or so I've been told."

"It stands to reason," Draco said. "Where _is_ Hagrid, anyway?"

"Apparently, he's away on some business for the Headmaster."

"He won't be coming back?"

"Not tonight."

They lapsed into silence. They were standing across from each other in the middle of the one-room cabin. She was wringing her hands. She stopped and turned, looking for a place to sit. The bed rose up before her, indomitable in the far left corner of the room. She chose one of the rough-hewn chairs by the table instead.

"What did you want to talk about?" she asked.

Draco could hardly remember. He hadn't expected to be so alone with her. He hadn't expected that his focus would be drawn to her bare arms and shoulders, to her legs, crossed, where they peeped from beneath the hem of that impossibly short dress. He shifted his weight, thought about sitting, but decided that he preferred to stand.

When he didn't answer, she fidgeted, uncertain what to do with the silence which hung about them, still and sonorous in its own fashion. Finally, she spoke. "Pansy seems to think that you want to break up with me."

He did respond then, with something akin to a snort of derision at the sound of Pansy's name. "And what do you think?"

"I don't know how we would break up. We aren't really together."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "We aren't?"

"We are?" she asked. "Maybe we shouldn't be."

Tension settled in his jaw. "Why not?"

"Something is happening, Draco. You disappear for a day and then turn up horribly injured, snake-bitten. Something isn't right and you won't tell me what it is."

He closed his eyes. "I can't," he said.

"So it's to remain a mystery." Her chin rose in defiance. "I don't like mysteries."

"Really?" he asked, eyes snapping open. "You _are_ one, a mystery." He stalked across the floor, pacing angrily. "Where are you from Imogene?"

"France," she said simply.

"Curious. No accent." His tone was accusatory.

"I was born in England. We lived here until I was eight. We moved to France."

"Where are you _really _from, Imogene?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did they send you?"

"Who?"

"My father, Pettigrew, _them_."

"What are you talking about?" Her eyes were large, frightened.

He stopped pacing in the middle of the room, just stopped moving. He let stillness find him, seeking calm. It eluded him. Draco sat down where he was, on the dirty wooden planks of the floor. He leaned forward a bit, arms resting on his knees, head lowered.

He wasn't far from where she sat; his back to her. There was something about the set of his shoulders; labored, as if they bore weight. She reached out, touched the back of his neck, the skin there so exposed, so unprotected.

Draco tensed beneath her fingers. It was the first time she'd touched him since they'd entered the cabin. He'd been thinking about it, about when and how she'd finally touch him, about when he would touch her. He turned then, coming up on his knees in front of her. He ran his hands up along her calves, fingers skirting the backs of her knees, coming to rest at the hem of her dress which lay across her thighs. The movement was quick, unexpected. He barely knew that he'd done it until he'd felt the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.

He stopped, waiting. She might have slapped him. She might slap him still. He hadn't asked, hadn't even thought of asking in the face of what he wanted.

Hermione stopped breathing. She hadn't even realized it until the pent up breath she'd been holding escaped her lips. He'd touched her so quickly, gently, boldly that it cost her her breath. She looked down at him, at his head, bowed, at his hands against her thighs, flirting with the hem of her dress.

He'd managed to close the distance between them so suddenly. She was unprepared. He was close and he was in danger of stripping Imogene away from her—if she let him. He'd crossed the boundary between the two girls, found territory that was hers alone, inviolate. It would be Hermione he would have in his arms—if she let him.

Her throat was tight, her thoughts swift, cluttered by nerves, by the heat of his hands. She looked at his hands, his wrists, his forearms beneath the shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows. The skin along the inside of his left forearm was bare except for two pale, round scars, all that remained of his encounter with the snake. There was no Dark Mark. Hermione wondered if it was enough; if the absence of something was enough of a reason to trust. All she had was absence, absence and instinct.

She leaned then, bending to kiss him. Her lips touched his, open, wet, and she covered his hands with her own, pushing them beneath the hem of her dress. He seemed to unfold, pressing up to meet her mouth, limbs shifting, standing and drawing her to her feet. He kissed her, lips anxious, touching her nose, pulling in the delicate skin above her upper lip. Something caught in him, a sudden urgency as he opened his mouth over hers.

His hands found her face, framed it, fingertips bushing her hairline before they trailed along her cheeks and traced the underside of her jaw. The skin of her face was flushed, her lips warm, wet beneath his tongue.

She shifted against him. Her fingers found his collar, then his tie. She touched the soft knot of fabric, worked its folds and pulled until it loosened at his neck. Draco took her cue. He broke the kiss and stepped back from her, tugging the loose tie free of his collar. She saw the color in his face; his lips smudged red, stained deep and full, bruised from kissing her. His eyes were dark, tarnished silver, pupils black and luminous.

His fingers found the buttons on his shirt and unfastened them, hands unsteady. He slipped out of the shirt. Hermione watched him, the way he moved, the way his shoulders bunched and shrugged as he discarded the shirt. He was fluid and yet there was a rigid tension in him, a tension that was dark and daunting.

It was oddly lonely to be there in front of her and yet apart from her. There was something about her eyes, fear; a certain anxious concern that set her apart from him. He did the only thing he could think of. He took her hand, placed it against his chest, thinking that then she would know, she would feel the erratic thump of his pulse beneath his skin, she would know that he was real and that he felt these things.

Hermione touched him, moved her fingers down his chest, over the flat, hard plane of his stomach, her nails grazing his skin. His breath caught, she felt it hitch in his lungs. He shivered. He is real, she thought, real with wanting her, responding to her touch. He crushed her close, trapping her hands between them, kissing her.

She sighed. His fingers caught in her hair, sliding through the dark strands, tilting her head, angling her lips beneath his. Draco shifted, holding her, moving across the floor, moving toward the bed.

The bed was a bit large, a bit ridiculous. He felt a bit ridiculous as he pulled her down with him on to the soft surface—a bit foolish in his need. His hands shook as he moved them along her arms from her wrists to her shoulders. His fingers slipped beneath the thin straps of her dress and pushed them down along her arms.

He lay on top of her. She felt his strength, his weight; traced the lean sinew of his arms, his chest. His head tipped forward as he watched her, pale hair falling into his eyes, bleached in the firelight, more white than blond. It made him look boyish—the hair in his eyes.

He leaned, touched his mouth to her chin; moved his lips along her jaw to the skin of her throat. He was careful of her, or he tried to be. He was thinking that Lucius had taught him many things, but not how to love a girl. He'd taught him to fight, taught him the dark arts, but he hadn't taught him this. He could only hope that he didn't harm her, that he didn't put her in harm's way; because there was a tightness, a violence inside him which would do damage if he let it.

Hermione felt the restraint in him, as if he were trying not to startle her. It was too late for that. He touched her and she was astonished. Feeling him against her, close, was new, startling. He peeled the dress down, pulled the fabric to her hips, kissed her stomach. His fingers slipped beneath the edge of her bra, tracing soft, round flesh. He touched her and she was astonished.

She would remember that he said the oddest thing. He said please.

Yes, she said.

She crossed her arms behind his shoulders and drew his body tight to hers.

**OOO**

She was wrapped in his arms, her back to his chest, her body stretched along the length of his. Her skin was damp; the hair at her temples wet, the ends slick and beginning to curl. Some of her hair was trapped beneath him, where he lay with his lips at her shoulder. He spoke softly into her back, thinking that she must be asleep.

"We're together," he said into the silence of the room.

She heard him and a voice inside her, a small soundless voice made a silent response.

We are, it said, but maybe we shouldn't be.

**OOO**

She stared hard at the empty bed. The sun's early morning rays slanted in through the windows of the room, casting a sharp, bright light on the crisply folded sheets and coverlet—turned down just so—which lay pristine and untouched against the narrow bed. The hospital corners were tight and severe, almost mocking in their rigid adherence to the mattress. The bed had not been slept in.

Pansy Parkinson clutched her pillow in her hands. She held it tight in her grasp, nails digging into the soft, plush fabric. Imogene's bed was empty.

It wasn't until the feathers began to leak from the torn case that Pansy realized she'd ripped her pillow in two.

**OOO**

Hermione kept her eyes lowered as she walked the hall. She had the sneaking suspicion that people could see it on her—all of last night—in her eyes. She knew it wasn't true, wasn't possible. She looked as she always looked when she was Imogene, maybe even a little too similar. The polyjuice manufactured appearance with such precision that it left little room for all too human variables; as Imogene she had never had a bad hair day.

Nonetheless, she felt exposed, unable to hide her identity or her secrets, unable to forget the way he had touched her and the things he had said.

_We're together._

She hadn't answered him, only thought her response. He'd kept talking, softly, his lips against her shoulder. She'd felt the vibration of his voice against her skin. He'd been talking, but not precisely to her. There was something about the way he spoke, unfettered; not expecting a response; speaking because he needed to, but not necessarily because he needed to be heard.

The things he said were abstruse and yet intrinsic; that his father had made him a killer, had taught him things, things which he had thought were important. _They weren't important_. Not one of them. They were useless things. They were the things which made him who he was. _When the things which make you are useless, what are you?_

It didn't matter what he was; useless, he could still be used. He could be given a task. He could be told to kill. It was what he'd been taught.

He didn't want to. He didn't want to kill, but he knew nothing else. He would have to be taught otherwise. He would have to learn.

And then, so softly that she'd barely heard: _would she help him learn?_

He hadn't expected an answer. Though he'd lapsed into silence, it wasn't in want of a response. He had simply stopped talking. He had simply finished.

**OOO**

"Miss LeCoeur."

There was a hand at her elbow, none too gentle, which stopped her progress down the hall.

"A word," Professor Snape said. "My office."

Hermione blinked, her thoughts shifting back to the present. Snape was the last person she wanted to see right now. The thought of facing him, a skilled Leglimens with a vested interest in her relationship with Draco for reasons she could barely understand, was enough to make her stomach clench, especially now that her memories would betray her, bringing a flush of embarrassment to her face.

She shook free of his grasp, leaving Snape to regard her with a kind of controlled exasperation that bordered on annoyance. After a moment he inclined his head, nodding to indicate that she should precede him down the corridor. They walked to his office in silence.

Hermione entered the small dimly lit room with the usual mixture of claustrophobia and foreboding which seemed to overtake her each time she visited Snape's office. The place was just plain creepy, its walls lined with shelves of glass jars that housed rare and unusual potions ingredients. She thought it odd that, even though he'd finally succeeded in obtaining the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, he had opted to keep this horrible little room as his office, suited as it was for the Potions Master. Her thoughts were interrupted however, when she noticed that Draco stood at attention in the middle of the room facing the professor's desk, his back to her.

Hermione walked over to stand in front of the desk, perhaps a bit further from Draco than was necessary, going out of her way to pretend that nothing had happened between the two of them. Draco cut his eyes to her briefly and then quickly looked away. There was nothing in his eyes when he'd looked at her, nothing save a curious blankness which wounded her. She felt a singular stab of disappointment.

Snape seated himself behind his desk and regarded the two of them carefully. He said nothing for a long while. He simply sat watching them for signs of what he knew must have happened but couldn't quite prove. At last he spoke.

"It has come to my attention from Miss Parkinson that Miss LeCoeur was absent from the girls' dormitory last night."

Hermione let her gaze slip down to the floor lest her eyes betray her. Draco, on the other hand, didn't flinch. He stared straight ahead, not at Snape, but at the glass jars which lined the wall behind him.

"I have further confirmed with Mr. Zabini that Mr. Malfoy's bed was equally empty."

That was enough to provoke a response from Draco. He looked directly at Snape then. "Are we being accused of something?" He tried to ask casually in the sort of lazy drawl which would have passed for nonchalance if it hadn't been for the sharp edge of defiance in his voice.

Snape leaned back in his chair. There was nothing which escaped his notice, neither the tone of Draco's voice, nor the curious way in which the two students avoided looking at one another.

"It is not my job to accuse anyone of anything. I would simply remind you both that rules of curfew are to be observed."

Draco bristled and it wasn't lost on his Head of House. Snape observed the boy closely. It was all there, the usual boredom, arrogance, a studied carelessness that was as much a part of the Malfoy family inheritance as the deed to the manor itself. But today it didn't add up. Draco was changed, different.

He couldn't say exactly how the boy had changed, but it was palpable nonetheless. It read in his stance and in the simmering anger which had surfaced in his tone. There was a fierceness about him—as if he were protecting something.

"Is that all?" Draco asked.

"That is all," Snape replied. "You may go, Mr. Malfoy. You as well, Miss LeCoeur." He didn't rise to show them out. Instead Snape remained behind his desk watching as they turned and Draco reached across to open the door for Imogene.

It was then that he noticed it, the deep flush across the back of Draco's neck. The boy had leaned close to her as he'd reached for the door. Her eyelids fell a fraction of an inch; her reaction to his nearness. It was small, nearly imperceptible. Snape had almost missed it, almost missed the way that Draco had nearly touched the small of her back to guide her through the door. The boy had thought better of it, closed the fingers of his hand. He was careful of her, Snape noted. He was careful of her in a way which indicated that he'd known her.

Severus Snape closed his eyes. He had felt that once, that flush across the back of the neck. It had been a long time ago. He would never feel it again.

**OOO**

There was something off about Hermione. It'd been that way all day, since the minute she'd arrived late for class this morning. Maybe she was using the Time-Turner again, Harry thought. It seemed a ready explanation, one which she'd supplied, but even that didn't quite seem to explain it. She was distracted, her thoughts scattered. He'd seen her nervous before, anxious, even frazzled, but scattered worried him.

Harry looked up at her. She was sitting across from him in the Gryffindor common room, parchment spread out on the low table in front of her. She dragged her quill across the paper in fits and starts, leaving unsightly splotches of ink in its wake. It had been forty-five minutes and she'd only written three lines. The page looked like something Ron might hand in on a good day.

Harry couldn't figure it out. He'd tried asking her outright what was wrong. Even then he hadn't gotten a decent answer. Maybe it had something to do with the way he'd said it. It'd been straightforward, direct. He didn't know any other way to ask, couldn't speak in any other way than the rough, unsubtle language of boys. It worked with Ron, but Ron was of course a boy; easy and emotionally uncomplicated.

Girls had a way of speaking that was overly complicated, even convoluted. Harry didn't always understand it and he certainly couldn't recreate it. As a result, he was left with her non-answer to his question and his gut instinct that something was definitely wrong.

Oddly enough, he thought of the Marauder's Map and the two Hermiones he'd seen several weeks ago. He'd only seen it once, that strange double on the map. Today it felt like that double was sitting in front of him. The Hermione he knew was somewhere else, and her ghost, her echo, was left to complete the Transfiguration assignment that had dogged her for the past forty-five minutes.

Hermione crumpled up the parchment in front of her. She stood suddenly and snapped her quill in half. Harry dropped his own quill, startled by her actions. He realized that her eyes were wet. She scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyelids and drew in a deep breath.

Harry wasn't sure what made him do it, but it seemed like the only thing that made sense. He stood and pulled her into his arms. Her shoulders shook and she stifled a sob. Just once he'd like to get close to a girl without her bursting into tears, Harry thought ruefully.

He patted her back—a bit awkwardly at first, then thought better of it and tightened his arms around her. After a few moments she calmed and twisted out of his arms, dashing a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

"What is going on, Hermione?" he asked for the second time that afternoon.

"Nothing," she said.

Harry knew that he'd said it wrong. He knew that he'd been too direct, but it wasn't in him to find a tortuous way of saying _tell me_.

**OOO**

It was late. She must have fallen asleep on the couch. Hermione rubbed her eyes. A new Transfiguration essay, her third attempt, sat half finished on the table. It was a familiar sight. She'd been struggling with the essay all night.

Harry was gone. In his place Ron sat, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. There was an unusual quiet about him. He wasn't happy, she realized. If anything he looked a bit morose.

"It's him, isn't it?" Ron asked. Hermione looked at him, confused. "I saw the two of you earlier. Together."

She sat up straight. Who had he seen? Draco? Imogene? She was having trouble keeping track of it all. "I'm not sure what you're talking about," she said softly.

"I saw him hug you, Hermione, here in the common room, you and Harry."

"Harry?"

"Don't say it didn't happen. I _know_ it did." Ron stared down at his hands.

"Ron, I was just…having a bad day. Harry tried to help."

"Sure, Hermione, sure, but it's not just today. It's been a while now really that there's been someone else."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been trying to figure it out. Who it could be, I mean. At first I thought maybe Neville, but I never saw the two of you together so that didn't make sense. Then I thought maybe Seamus, but he's not really your type is he?"

"My type?"

"So I figured it had to be someone closer. I just didn't know how close until this afternoon."

"Ron, Harry and I aren't… a thing. Really, we're not." She touched his shoulder.

"Well, who then, Hermione? _Who?_ Because it isn't me." His voice grew loud.

And she heard him. She heard him loud and clear. Somehow, she'd forgotten about Ron; sweet, adorable, comforting, infuriating Ron. She looked at his face; saw the hurt that had gathered there around his eyes and mouth. She had forgotten about Ron.

How could she explain? She couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to say the words. She was frightened of their truth. Truth had a way of transfiguring things—of making them real. In lieu of that truth she had nothing to offer Ron. She had nothing to give to her friend, and so she fell back into the familiar pattern of their relationship.

"It isn't you?" she snapped. "Well, let's be honest, Ron. It's isn't me either, is it?"

"What?" He stirred.

"What about that girl you've been mooning over?"

"The Veela? Oh, come on Hermione! I can't help but like her. She's a Veela!"

"She is not! She's just a girl and you don't have to like her!"

"This is ridiculous! That's never going to happen! She's out of my league! And you're… you're…"

"I'm _what_, Ron? Appropriate? Available? I don't think you even like me, Ron. You just don't want Harry to beat you at something else!"

Ron jumped up from his seat on the couch. She'd done it. She'd made him angry, so angry that the words came tumbling out. "I saw you! I saw you and Harry. I always thought it was true! He has this photo of his parents. And he looks like his dad; Harry does, in the picture. It's his dad and his mom, smiling, waving. They're happy. They're in love. And then I saw the two of you in the common room and it was like the picture. You're the girl in the picture, Hermione!"

"Ron, you're a brick! How can you be so dense? The girl in the picture. Think! There _is_ someone else, someone who looks just like the girl in the picture—right down to her coppery red hair. It's Ginny, Ron!" she said. "It's Ginny!"

**OOO**

Ginny Weasley sat on the end of Hermione's bed. Her coppery red hair was caught up in a ponytail at the back of her neck. She was talking excitedly about something, probably the latest campaign to unfold in Operation Get Harry Potter to Notice Me. Hermione was trying to pay attention, but her own thoughts kept intruding on their conversation.

"You okay?" Ginny asked finally.

"Fine," Hermione answered. "Tired, I think."

"You look different somehow," Ginny said. "Did you do something to your hair? It looks darker, not as curly."

Hermione touched a hand self-consciously to her hair. "No."

"You sure? A straightening charm maybe? I saw this great one in _Witch Weekly_."

"Oh, _Witch Weekly!_" Hermione groaned.

"What? I read it for the articles," Ginny said.

"Articles? Like the one Rita Skeeter wrote placing me at the center of a love triangle with Harry and Viktor?"

"Are you kidding? That wasn't an article. That was pure fiction. It was great. Do you know what you supposedly said to Viktor when you finally gave him the kiss off?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "What?"

"'Viktor,' you said, 'these are troubled times we're living in and right now, I need more than just a man, I need a hero. Harry Potter is that hero.'"

"Oh for crying out loud!" Hermione said.

"I know, right?" Ginny laughed. "It's total bollocks, but brilliant all the same."

Hermione sighed. The idea of her being caught in the middle of a love triangle seemed absolutely preposterous. "Ginny, you don't think that Harry and I ever…"

"Of course not," Ginny said. "I know friends when I see them. It's rubbish, the lot of it."

"Good. Ron seems to think there's something going on."

"Oh, Ron," Ginny sighed wearily. "All the Weasley men are horribly jealous."

"Your dad seems pretty normal."

"Sure, it looks that way now, but Mum has the most awful stories about him when they were dating. You know he once suspected her of cheating on him with Regulus Black."

"No!" Hermione gasped.

"It's true! Not that she cheated, of course, but that he suspected her."

"I can't believe it!"

"It's the family curse—on the men at least."

Hermione laughed. She was surprised to hear herself chuckle after everything that had happened lately. "Ginny, do you think that if you and Harry were dating that you'd ever…"

"What?" Ginny asked.

"Well, that maybe the two of you would…"

"Hermione, are you trying to tell me something?"

"No, this is a hypothetical question. I'm just saying, do you ever think about it?"

Ginny stared at her for a moment. Hermione was indeed trying to tell her something, but she couldn't be sure what it was. "You mean, like what it would be like?"

"Sort of," Hermione said. "Or like if it would be okay—right, I mean."

It dawned on Ginny that Hermione was asking her permission for something. "I guess it would be fine," she said, "if I loved him."

Hermione's eyes darkened.

"I mean, I don't know. This is HP we're talking about here, right? _He is that hero,_" Ginny laughed.

Right, Hermione thought, but what if he weren't that hero? What if he weren't so nice? What if he weren't Harry Potter at all? Would it still be fine… if she loved him?

Ginny had the feeling that Hermione was about to tell her something, something big. So she was disappointed when she noticed the older girl shake free of whatever it was that had kept her so preoccupied.

Hermione changed the subject. "So what else does _Witch Weekly_ think the modern witch needs to know?"

"Well, they've given us a list of the top ten eligible bachelor wizards."

"Let me guess. Harry Potter, Viktor Krum, Gilderoy Lockhart." Hermione began ticking off names on her fingers.

"Spot on," Ginny said. "It's the usual suspects, but there's a new addition to the list this year and it's causing a bit of controversy."

"Who?" Hermione asked.

"Malfoy! Can you believe it?"

"Huh. What's the controversy?"

"It's Malfoy, that's what!"

"Well, I guess he's eligible, Ginny. I mean, he has a lot of money and he's not married."

"Yeah, but Hermione I think you are missing the obvious! _Malfoy!_" she said. "And since when does _Witch Weekly_ add Death Eaters to its list of eligible bachelor wizards? If they're going to do that they may as well just add You-Know-Who!"

"Ginny! Malfoy and You-Know-Who are not the same! One is a Dark Lord bent on wiping out Muggles and half-bloods. The other is just a boy. He's not so… he's much more… eligible."

"You're defending him? And those are your grounds?"

"I'm just saying that—"

"—Oh, Hermione, that dog won't hunt. Besides, from what I've heard Malfoy isn't so eligible."

"What do you mean?"

"Myrtle told me he's been seeing that girl in Slytherin, the exchange student."

"Myrtle's a horrible gossip. And just where did she get hold of that information? Let me guess, someone flushed it down the U-bend."

"She's a ghost, Hermione. Everyone knows that the ghosts in this castle know everything. Anyway, it makes sense. Pansy Parkinson's been beside herself lately. It's the only explanation. Draco Malfoy's got a girlfriend." Ginny scrunched up her face as if the thought were unbearable, even gross. She hopped off of Hermione's bed.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked.

"To write a letter to _Witch Weekly_. Somebody's got to let them know that they have one less eligible bachelor wizard on their hands."

**OOO**

Hermione should have been sleeping. She couldn't of course. No matter how hard she tried, she lay awake, staring into the dark. Lavender was snoring lightly. The girl lay flat on her back with some sort of cream mask on her face which had hardened during the night into a rictus of sleep.

The golem buzzed dully at the back of her mind. She'd sent it to sleep in Imogene's bed. It was an easy enough task, one that required little focus. The golem would not be called upon to walk or speak. It could simply lay there, taking up space, fooling those inclined to be curious.

It was odd being apart from Draco. She felt lonely in a way that she hadn't before. All she could think about was him; lying next to him, on top of him, her hair hanging down in his face, his body beneath hers.

Had it only been last night? It seemed a long way off. He seemed so far away. Maybe it was because they had been so close. Draco had been close to her… to Imogene. What he felt, he felt for Imogene, the girl who wasn't real. The problem was that Hermione was real. What she felt for him was real, only the real girl's feelings weren't returned.

There were too many people in the equation. There were three of them, an odd number; a number that inevitably left someone out in the cold. What would happen if there were two? What would happen if it were just the two of them, the real boy and the real girl?

Hermione didn't want to do it anymore. She didn't want to be Imogene. What would happen if she simply stopped, stopped taking the polyjuice, stopped conjuring the golem? What if she simply stopped Imogene altogether; if she killed her so to speak?

It was an easy enough thing to manage, bloodless, painless. All she had to do was let Imogene go.

Hermione closed her eyes. She realized that that was what she wanted: to let Imogene go. She relaxed her focus, felt the golem dissolve. So easy just to let her go.

**OOO**

_Murder!_ The thought rose up loud, screaming in her ears. She couldn't breathe. Her lungs. No air. Her throat closing. Tight. So tight. No air.

Hermione's eyes were open, but her vision was fading fast, falling out in spots, blotted out by a creeping, rising darkness. She was being strangled in her bed.

She was dying; clawing at the hands fastened tight around her throat.

Imogene's hands.

**OOO**

So glad that this chapter is done! I can breathe a big ol' sigh of relief! Thanks for reading!


	10. The Impossible Possibility

**Chapter 10: The Impossible Possibility**

Lavender Brown was one of those girls who would be without a profession. There was a word for them: feckless. She was the marrying kind. She would finish Hogwarts, barely, and go on to some sort of job which she would work right up until a husband came along. She'd make a proper housewitch. It was old-fashioned and may even have been charming to Poppy Pomfrey if she hadn't been trying to obtain valuable information from the girl regarding what appeared to be a brutal attack on Hermione Granger.

"You didn't see anyone, Miss Brown?" Madam Pomfrey asked.

"No. No one," Lavender replied. "She just sort of lay there gurgling."

"I doubt gurgling left such bruises on her neck." Choking or strangling was more like it. "The more you tell me about how it happened, the easier it will be for me to treat her."

"Is she horribly wounded?"

The way the girl asked Poppy Pomfrey wondered whether she was saddened or delighted. "She'll recover."

"Then can't she tell you what happened?"

"She has."

Lavender shrugged. "Then you must have all your answers."

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "Not at all, my dear. What Miss Granger says is quite simply impossible."

**OOO**

She'd merely told the truth. She'd been strangled by Imogene. Hermione may have omitted the part about Imogene being a golem—somehow a walking, talking, breathing figment of her imagination, a spell guided by her consciousness which coalesced into a girl—but the fact remained: Imogene had strangled her.

It shouldn't have been possible—her consciousness in revolt; her very mind working against her, seeking to destroy her. Did it qualify as attempted murder or attempted suicide? It was a riddle, a whodunit with an impossibility for an answer. She done it. She done herself wrong. She done herself in—nearly. Even the syntax was utter nonsense. Language failed the idea. Imogene had tried to kill her.

But how it was that Madam Pomfrey could have known of the impossibility was a mystery. Hermione had stared at the mediwitch of indeterminate age, her hair obscured by her austere grey wimple.

"It's impossible," Madam Pomfrey had said. Flummoxed, Hermione had asked the natural question.

"How?"

"Miss LeCoeur wasn't here. Her parents are visiting from France. They invited her to join them. She left the premises several days ago, the night before you entered the infirmary. Professor Snape told me himself."

"She wasn't here."

"Correct. So you see, she couldn't have strangled you."

Hermione threw back the sheets and swung her legs over the edge of the narrow hospital bed. "Where _is_ Professor Snape?"

"In his office I imagine. He looked in on you this morning. Said he would return to check on you this evening. I intend to see that you will be here when he returns." Madam Pomfrey gently pushed Hermione back against the bed pillows. She lifted the girl's legs, settled them on the bed and drew the sheets over her once more.

Hermione knew a losing battle when she saw one. She allowed herself to be tucked in by the zealous mediwitch, thoughts turning once again to the impossible possibility of what had happened.

There was one man who had answers, who knew the possible from the impossible.

"I look forward to his visit," Hermione said as she sank back against the pillows.

**OOO**

Lavender Brown hung about Ron's shoulders like cheap dress robes.

"It's just ghastly what happened to her, isn't it?" she asked, her eyes round with fear and the merest hint of excitement. "I mean, who would do something like that? Who would strangle a girl? None of us are safe."

She tightened her arms around Ron and buried her face in his neck. Ron was mostly uncomfortable. There was something infinitely embarrassing about the way Lavender clung to him in front of his friends, but there was something else, too. It made him feel kind of important, like she needed him, like he could protect her from something. It wasn't all bad and in fact, it wasn't bad at all having a girl in his arms who was soft and who needed him.

Ginny felt differently about the whole thing. Lavender Brown was drama and this whole shrinking violet routine was clearly an act. She half suspected Lavender of trying to strangle Hermione, though clearly she lacked motive. Ginny watched as her brother seemed to puff up a bit, his confidence bolstered by the delicate flower in his arms.

"It's okay, Lavender," Ron said. "We won't let them hurt you."

Speak for yourself, Ginny thought. She glanced over at Harry to gauge his reaction. He was looking anywhere but at Ron and Lavender, perhaps trying to give his best mate a bit of privacy.

Harry was being polite. Ginny didn't see a point in it. She wasn't going to hide her feelings where Lavender Brown was concerned. She leaned over to Harry and whispered her opinion of the whole thing. "Barf," she said.

Harry's shoulders shook as he stifled a laugh. He really shouldn't be laughing at a time like this, not after what had happened to Hermione. If only Madam Pomfrey would let them in to see her. They'd been waiting in the Hospital Wing for days in the hopes of getting in. Today looked promising. Harry had a good feeling about it, despite the fact that they'd spent nearly an hour watching Lavender wind her way around Ron like a particularly precocious bit of Devil's Snare.

At last Madam Pomfrey emerged and led them back into the ward to see Hermione.

"Not too long of a visit," she cautioned. "The patient needs rest in order to heal."

"Honestly, Madam Pomfrey, I've had quite a bit of rest today, in fact, I'm full up on it," Hermione said. She pushed herself up against the pillows, relieved to see friendly faces at last—well, mostly friendly faces. She noticed Lavender clinging to Ron's arm with a thinly veiled look of satisfaction on her face. "On second thought, Madam Pomfrey, I don't know if I can handle so many visitors at once. Perhaps Lavender could wait outside? I mean, I'd like to thank her personally later on. If she hadn't woken up, who knows what would have happened."

"Certainly, dear," Madam Pomfrey replied. Hermione watched as the mediwitch pried Lavender's fingers loose from Ron's arm and escorted the girl from the room. Finally, Hermione was alone with her friends, and though she couldn't tell them the truth about what had happened to her, it was a great comfort to have them there.

She couldn't say, however, that they felt the same. Judging from the looks on their faces, they may even have preferred to be anywhere but there. Ron's eyes softened when he looked at her, but his jaw seemed to tighten in anger. Harry's eyes were dark. He looked away from her quickly. Ginny simply stared, swallowing a lump in her throat.

Hermione touched a hand to her hair self-consciously. "I must look positively awful," she murmured.

The boys couldn't seem to make a reply. She did look awful. There were huge bruises along her neck and jaw, bruises of an impossible color, not black and blue, but dark and mottled, the result of broken blood vessels beneath damaged skin.

Ginny sat down on the edge of the bed. She took Hermione's hand.

"It's not that you look awful," she said. "It just looks like it hurts… like _you're _hurt and there's nothing we can do about it."

_It does hurt_, Hermione thought. She felt battered, her whole body sore even though her neck and shoulders bore the brunt of the pain. She supposed the worst of it was over, though. She'd survived Imogene. She'd survived the sharp, keen pain of her collarbone as it knit itself back together with the aid of Madam Pomfrey's potions. It hurt, but the pain was less than before and it would continue to abate as time wore on.

"What happened, Hermione?" Ron asked. "Who did this to you?"

"I… I don't know. I thought it was a girl, but… it's hard to say. I barely saw her. I think maybe it could have been a spell or hex or something."

"That's one hell of a bat-bogey hex," Ron said somberly.

Hermione managed a wan smile. "I think it was a bit more advanced than that."

"Who would do something like that?" he asked, anger rising in his voice.

Harry spoke at last. "Voldemort," he said quietly.

There was silence in the room. Hermione saw the toll it took on Harry to say it. She watched him assume the burden, shoulder the blame. It weighed heavy on him. He thought it was his fault; that Voldemort would strike at his friends to get to him. It was feasible, it was entirely logical, but in this instance it was wrong.

Hermione wanted to tell him so. She wanted to lift that burden, but she couldn't. He couldn't know about Imogene or Draco. He couldn't know that she was working for the Order to help him. She had to protect him and so he couldn't know. But was she really helping him? Had she really helped anyone?

Letting him assume the blame for something that wasn't his fault was not a way to help him. She watched Harry begin to withdraw. He would distance himself to protect his friends. He would turn inward and hold the blame, the responsibility, the burden, close enough to keep them all at bay. He would shut down.

Hermione read it in his features. It began with the distance in his eyes and the downward slope of his shoulders. He shoved his fingers into his pockets and holed up inside himself.

Hermione couldn't tell him the truth, but she couldn't bear the alternative. She couldn't let him go this alone. She did the only thing she could think of. She reached out and caught his sleeve in her fingers, drawing him close to the bed. Hermione pulled his hand from his pocket and joined it with Ginny's hand which she'd been holding.

Ginny lowered her eyes. She didn't see what Hermione saw. She didn't see Harry start at her touch. She didn't see the distance in his eyes evaporate. She didn't see that he was suddenly incredibly present and incredibly close.

**OOO**

Hermione gritted her teeth. Snape's intense scrutiny had set her on edge. He stood at the foot of her hospital bed, arms folded across his chest, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes. His eyes raked over her from head to foot, not at all pleased with what he saw.

"You've refused to let Madam Pomfrey treat your bruises. There are potions for such things. Why do you insist on behaving like an imbecile?" he asked.

"I am not an imbecile," Hermione snapped. "I simply knew that if I let her treat them you'd tell me that they never existed, that I made the whole thing up. It's called incontrovertible evidence and I'm _wearing_ it."

"You're no doubt feeling it as well." Snape walked around to the side of her bed and leaned over to place his fingers on her neck. His touch was brusque and clinical. She winced in pain and he drew back immediately, having proven his point.

"Then we're agreed that it happened," Hermione said.

"I had no intention of disputing the facts."

"The facts," she said skeptically. "You told Madam Pomfrey that Imogene's gone on some sort of holiday. That is not a fact."

"It is a necessity, Miss Granger, for while you have been here in the Hospital Wing, Imogene has been absent. I assure you it makes no difference to me having one less student in my class, but there is someone who would note her absence immediately and seek her were it to go unexplained."

Hermione felt a flush of embarrassment well up in her cheeks, the heat of it bleeding along the soft curled flesh of her ears. _Of course._ Draco would notice. He would perhaps miss her as she missed him.

"Oh," she said in a small soft voice.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "I'm not given to sending students on holiday willy-nilly." It was a mildly ridiculous statement from the former Potions Master and while he continued to glower, hostile as ever, the silly sentence served to undermine his authority somewhat.

"No, I wouldn't think you would," Hermione said. "It's just that now Madam Pomfrey doesn't believe me. She thinks that Imogene can't have strangled me because she wasn't here."

"She didn't strangle you."

"I thought you weren't disputing the facts."

"You were indeed brutalized, Miss Granger, but not by Imogene."

"By the golem then," Hermione insisted.

"By your inability to handle the magic. By your carelessness."

"Carelessness? I was nearly murdered in my sleep and it was not because I was careless!" Hermione threw back the bed covers and slid to her feet. She paced angrily toward Professor Snape, the desire for confrontation brimming in her eyes. "Something is wrong! The golem is doing things of its own accord!"

"It cannot. It has no will, no volition."

He was hiding something, Hermione realized, and it was easy enough for him to do so. That was the advantage of being Professor Snape. He'd perfected the art of hostility and exploited the trappings of condescension to build an insurmountable distance between himself and others. From such a distance it was nearly impossible to ferret him out, to learn his truths.

Hermione knew this and yet she found herself looking for a chink in his armor. Snape had no right to keep these truths from her, especially if her life were in danger as a result. It was not for him to decide. It was not for him to withhold knowledge. Hermione studied him. She would find the weakness that would expose his truths.

"If there is nothing else, Miss Granger, I am content to have Madam Pomfrey discharge you tonight provided you agree to let her treat your bruises."

"Alright, I suppose the evidence is no longer necessary."

"It wasn't necessary to begin with. The facts are what they are."

"We're agreed on the facts," Hermione said, "but the truth is another matter entirely."

**OOO**

The gender wards were an easy enough thing for a clever witch to deceive. They were an ancient magic it was true—as ancient as the attraction between men and women dating back to time immemorial—but they posed little problem for Hermione Granger when she was intent upon something. She had made up her mind to see Draco, to talk to him alone, and no bit of magic ancient or otherwise was going to stop her.

She climbed the stairs to the Slytherin boys' dormitory. In the wee small hours of the morning there was no one to see her pass. The dubious light of crepuscule concealed her movement as well as any Invisibility Cloak might have. Her gender was in turn cloaked by a spell that was two parts transfiguration and one part glamour. It fooled the wards with a complex bit of gender nullification. While she looked every inch the feminine figure that was Imogene LeCoeur, the wards understood her to be about as sexless as a tea kettle.

It made no difference to the wards that the tea kettle slipped between the closed curtains of Draco Malfoy's bed and knelt beside him on the mattress, long, lean legs curled beneath it in a most un-kettle like way. It made every bit of difference to Draco who, feeling the presence of someone unexplained and unanticipated in his bed, sprang up out of sleep confused but surprisingly coordinated with the point of his wand shoved beneath the kettle's chin.

Hermione raised her hands in surrender, giving him a moment to look her over, to realize that he knew her, to understand that she was no unknown prowler skulking about the boys' dormitory. She waited, heart pounding at the base of her throat, for him to make the connection. At last the realization dawned and he lowered his wand, but the tension remained in his bare chest and in the tight sinew of his arms which he rocked back on, palms splayed against the mattress behind him.

"Imo—," he began, and stopped so that only the first two syllables of her name crossed his lips. It was a curious sound, almost _Emma_, but not quite. It was _Imma_ instead, and it struck Hermione as familiar, as if her parents had called her that as a child. It was impossible, of course, for the Grangers to have called her anything of the sort. Her name was not Imogene.

Hermione reached out to touch the side of his face, but he turned away from her, leaving her fingers to drag across his jaw before he drew himself completely out of her reach. There was a steely coldness about him. He didn't speak.

He was angry with her, she realized. The thought wounded her deeply. She dropped her hand to her lap, swallowing the lump that had begun to form in her throat. She looked at him, at his face turned away from her. Something about the lines of his face piqued her anger. There was a familiar cruelty in the set of his jaw, a particular brand of Malfoy arrogance and spite.

Hermione grasped his chin sharply and turned him to face her. He grabbed her wrist, fingers fastening around the delicate bones with painful intensity. She gasped, wrist stinging in his grasp, and slapped him hard with her free hand. The sound of the slap echoed through the room. She regretted it instantly, knowing that she had gone too far. The anger in his eyes frightened her, but suddenly she felt the shift in him. He dropped her wrist and pushed himself back against the headboard, away from her. He fought to slow his breathing. He fought for control.

He felt ugly. It wasn't the first time. He'd felt the ugliness before as it threatened to overwhelm him. It'd been bred into him. Draco closed his eyes. He could barely remember what had started it. He was left only with the sense of loss he'd felt when he'd thought she'd left.

"I shouldn't have hit you," she said softly, "but you frightened me."

He was still trying to make sense of it—of his behavior—and he was failing. "It's what I do," he said, aware that the statement wasn't adequate.

"What a horrible and silly thing to say," she admonished, her voice unsteady. "Of all the things you could do and you choose to frighten people—you choose to frighten _me_."

He opened his eyes finally and looked at her. "You left," he said.

Hermione was surprised to hear the hurt in his voice mingled as it was with the undercurrent of accusation. She stood accused of leaving him when she hadn't gone anywhere. She'd spent several days in the Hospital Wing, but he couldn't have known that.

"My parents," she said.

"Snape told me. He said they'd come for you."

"I didn't want to go."

"I thought you'd left. I thought because of…I thought you'd left." And he couldn't have blamed her because she'd seen him; she'd seen the ugliness inside him.

"I wouldn't," she said. "I won't."

She touched him then, palm flat against his chest. He needed the contact, felt the effects of it ripple across his skin. It was something which helped to keep the sorrow at bay, the sorrow of potentially losing her because she deserved more than what he was.

"I think you owe me an apology," she said. Her voice was light, an attempt to shift the mood. It took a moment for him to shake free of the sorrow, but at last he responded in kind.

"Then we have a problem," he said. "Malfoys don't apologize."

"Well, are you a man or a Malfoy?" she asked.

His fingers snagged in her hair as he pulled her close against him.

"What do you think?" he breathed.

**OOO**

He lay facing her, his body throbbing still. Her hands were on him, stroking his chest. It was difficult to stop touching him, but she did. She had to in order to rediscover her purpose, which she seemed to have lost the minute she'd found herself tangled in the sheets with him.

The instant her hands left him, he touched her, starved for the contact, the connection to her. His drew his fingers along her neck, traced the line of her newly mended collarbone and let them slip down along the damp skin of her chest following the hollow between her breasts.

"How did you get into my bed?" he asked.

"How indeed," she said archly.

"Past the wards, I mean."

"If you hadn't figured it out by now, I'm a fairly clever witch."

"A spell, then?"

"Of course. There's this fascinating spell book, _A Compendium of_—", she stopped when she noticed the smirk which had settled across his lips.

"Always books with you, isn't it?" The moment he said it, something occurred to him. Hermione watched his face. She didn't like this train of thought. She kissed him, lips clinging to his mouth, hoping to derail him. She was derailed in the process, however, and slightly dazed when at last she broke the kiss.

After a moment she recovered her train of thought. She had come here for a reason, she reminded herself.

"When Snape called us into his office, it was like he knew," she said.

"There's not much that escapes his notice," Draco agreed.

"I thought he might try to read my thoughts."

"He might have, if I hadn't been there."

"What do you mean?"

"Snape's a bully, and most bullies like to isolate their victims." Draco knew it for a fact. He'd grown up with a bully for a father. Snape was not unlike Lucius in that way.

"I think maybe he was bullied," Hermione said. "A long time ago." She thought of another bully, one who was the spitting image of her best friend: James Potter.

"Feeling sorry for him?" Draco asked.

"Snape? Not in the least. Wary is more like it. He's a powerful Leglimens."

"He is, but he's not infallible."

"He has a weakness then?" Hermione held her breath as she waited for Draco to answer.

"Perhaps. He's tried it on me, Leglimency. But there are things I know, things I've been taught, and when he was looking through my mind, trying to sift my memories, I took a look at his."

"And you found something?"

"Not much, but enough to know how he protects his memories. He seals them off behind a symbol—it's a pictogram."

"Like a puzzle?"

"Sort of. The symbol means something to him. Find the meaning and unlock the memory. It's a common Occlumency technique used to fortify mental defenses. Surely you've read a book about it," he teased.

"It sounds like it would be simple to beat."

"In theory, but the trouble is finding the meaning. A skilled Leglimens invests the symbol with a meaning that's obscure, esoteric, even personal enough so that it makes sense only to him. That's the strength of the technique. When executed properly, it renders the mind impenetrable."

"What's the symbol that he uses?"

"Looking to break him, are you?"

"I just want to be prepared in case he comes after me."

"I won't let him," he said, brushing a bit of damp hair behind her ear. The certainty in his voice warmed her, but she had to know.

"What is it?" she pressed.

"You think it would be something spooky, right? Because it's Snape. You think it would be something dark: a bat, a snake, a skull. But it isn't. In fact, it doesn't make much sense at all. It's a flower."

"A flower?" she asked, shocked.

"A flower," Draco repeated. "What in the bloody hell is the meaning of that?"

She couldn't answer, partly because she didn't know, but mostly because he'd slipped beneath the sheets, his hot, wet mouth finding her bare skin.

**OOO**

When he woke several hours later, the sun streamed in through the partially opened bed curtains. Draco scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, remembering that she'd left a while earlier whispering things which had hardly made sense about tea kettles or some such. Though barely awake, he'd felt her kiss him, a few strands of her hair had caught between their lips. He remembered glimpsing it, her hair, as she'd slipped through the bed curtains. It was thick, brown, curly, entirely too much—entirely in the way.

That last thought drove him up to sitting. He had seen what he'd seen. He was sure of it. But it was patently impossible. It was patently impossible that Hermione Granger had left his bed this morning.

**OOO**

"Don't look now, but someone is staring at you," Ginny said from across the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.

"You sure he's not staring at you?" Hermione asked, tiredly. Last night's lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with her.

"Who said anything about it being a boy?"

"Of course it's a boy, Ginny. I can tell by the tone of your voice."

Ginny shrugged. Hermione turned around to follow Ginny's gaze. Her eyes came to rest on Draco who was staring at her unabashedly. Instantly, she turned back around.

"It's the queerest thing," Ginny said. "I mean, you'd think he'd be glaring or whatever, but he's not. He looks almost…confused."

"Hmph," was all Hermione could manage.

"You haven't gone and bewitched Draco Malfoy, have you?" Ginny laughed.

"Not funny," Hermione said. Bewitching was not the verb she would have chosen to describe her actions of last night. "Will you stop staring at him staring at me?"

"Alright then," Ginny said. "Just thought I'd warn you."

Hermione pushed her plate away and laid the book that she'd been holding on her lap on the table in front of her.

"What's it this time then?" asked Ginny.

"Flowers. It's extra credit for Professor McGonagall."

"What kind of flowers? Not pansies, I hope." Ginny glanced over at the Slytherin table where Pansy Parkinson was chatting loudly with Millicent Bulstrode.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but stopped the instant Ginny's words sank in. There were flowers as in plants. Then there were other flowers as in girls. What a common thing it was; girls named after flowers._ Pansy. Lavender. Rose._

An idea took root. James Potter, the bully. Harry had told her. His dad, the Marauders, they used to bully Snape. Why? She tried to imagine Snape as he must've been when he was a student at Hogwarts; pale, scraggly black hair, skinny, something of a loner, certainly not popular, but a genius at potions. Why would James Potter torment Snape? He'd been an easy target no doubt, almost too easy. Boys could be cruel, but what if there had been something—_someone_—else at stake?

Hermione snapped her book shut and jumped up from the table.

"Not a pansy, Ginny," she said a bit breathlessly. "A _Lily_."

**OOO**

Hermione slammed her hand against the heavy wooden door of Snape's office. There was no reply but she knew that he was inside. She'd go on pounding the door all night if she had to. Eventually, it swung inward to reveal Snape glowering down at her with a familiar and not at all unexpected glare.

"My office hours are long over, Miss Granger," he snapped.

"Surely you've a moment to spare for the truth," Hermione said. She pushed past him into the dimly lit space. The light of several candles caught and refracted in the rows upon rows of glass jars which lined the shelves behind the professor's desk.

Snape closed the door. He turned to face her. "And what truth is it you seek?"

"One which you won't give me," she said. "And since you insist on keeping it from me, I thought I'd share mine. Here is my truth. I can't do this anymore. I can't do this without answers."

She'd planned it. She planned the words. She'd known what she was going to say before she'd said it, so she was surprised to hear her voice waver; she was surprised to find herself choking back unshed tears. "What is happening?" she asked. "You have the answers. You know why the golem has turned. Something is happening to _me_ and you know what it is."

Snape stared at her, his face impassive. The moment drew out between them. She was pleading with him and it had no effect. She'd expected that it wouldn't.

"You are imagining things," he said. "It is perhaps the stress of a magic that you are ill-equipped to withstand." Snape withdrew a vial from his robes. "I can help, perhaps. This can help."

Hermione stared at the pale, blue liquid which swirled in the vial he held between his fingers. Wouldn't it be lovely? Would it be lovely to sip from the vial and suddenly forget everything? She didn't know what the potion was, but she could be sure it had the sweet taste of Nepenthe—soothing, numbing, deadening.

She took the vial from his fingers and removed the stopper. "I can drink this," she said quietly, "but it won't bring her back."

Snape's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. "Who won't it bring back?" he asked.

"Lily," she said simply.

Something happened then. It began with the tic of a vein at his temple.

"You dare," he breathed in soft astonishment. You dare. _You dare!_ He repeated the words over and over. They grew louder with each utterance until she realized that he wasn't uttering them at all, he'd sent them screaming inside her mind. _You insufferable little brat! You dare! You dare to speak her name! You think to manipulate me by using her! You dare! You dare!_

Each word seared her consciousness. Pain streaked through her mind, crippling her. She dropped the vial and sagged against the edge of the desk. She held one thought, one thought only as he tore his way through the fabric of her mind: _Lily, Lily, Lily, Lily, Lily._ She repeated it like a mantra, over and over again as if it could save her.

Hermione fell to her knees. Wetness streaked down the side of her neck. There was blood trickling from her left ear.

_This_, she thought, _this was what had happened to Neville's parents_. "This—", she screamed aloud, but was unable to finish the thought. Had she strength enough it would have run thusly: _this is the sound of a mind as it breaks_.

**OOO**

"Enough!" said a voice. "Enough, Severus!"

Snape shook off the hands that clutched at his robes. He'd barely heard the voice. Belatedly it registered. He spun to see Albus Dumbledore standing beside him. At his feet lay Hermione Granger, conscious but dazed. There was more speech. He heard it as if from a distance. He thought it was Albus who spoke but he couldn't be sure.

"_What have you done, Severus? What have you done?"_

**OOO**

Sorry for the delay in updating. The new job has seriously cut into my writing time, but no way I abandon this story.

A big thanks in advance for your reviews!


	11. The Necessary Ingredients

**Chapter 11: The Necessary Ingredients **

Hermione flinched and the old wizard knew that she had come back to them. He spoke softly to avoid startling her.

"You must excuse me, Miss Granger, but there is a reason why Poppy Pomfrey runs the Hospital Wing and why I am merely Headmaster."

Dumbledore had given her something, a potion of some sort, though she couldn't remember having taken it. Rather she felt its presence in her veins, speeding the flow of blood, lending focus to her thoughts, collecting the remnants of a shattered psyche and melding them into a whole. It was an arduous process, one that left her with a certain amount of psychic noise, a mental interference in her train of thought, not unlike the static on a Muggle radio station.

Slowly Hermione made sense of the information being fed to her through her eyes: Dumbledore's gnarled hands holding a damp cloth wiping the dried blood from her ear, several coppery orange feathers beneath Fawkes's empty perch, and a candy dish full to the brim with what looked suspiciously like Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. She was in the Headmaster's office and he was tending her.

She knew that she needed tending, but she couldn't say how she knew. It was almost as if that information had come to her secondhand, as if someone had told her that she needed tending and she couldn't remember why.

Then she saw him. He was standing nearly cloaked in the window drapery, purposefully in shadow. She glimpsed his profile, the crooked hook of his nose, the tight angry slash of his mouth. His face was partially obscured by dark, lank hair, which hung in damp hanks to his shoulders. Recognition struck her. Snape. He had come after her. He had meant to break her. And then she knew why it was that she needed tending.

Snape was sweating, she realized. It was somehow at odds with the harsh lines of his profile. It was somehow human, very human against the violent stillness of his figure. He turned then, the movement slow and unfocused, hollow like his eyes.

Hermione flinched. Dumbledore understood why. The old wizard turned and raised a hand to Snape, indicating that he remain still. The gesture was not without warning. It would do to halt one man or slow a thousand; such was the latent power in the wizard's heavily lined palm.

"She is perfectly fine," Snape snarled from the window dressing.

Dumbledore cut his eyes to the former Potions Master.

"Forgive me if I doubt your judgment in this matter, Severus."

"It is my judgment, my _sound_ judgment, which has made all of this possible."

"Yes, and it therefore demonstrates my lack of judgment in asking of you that which it is beyond your capacity to give."

Hermione sat in stunned silence. She felt that peculiar brand of uncomfortable embarrassment which stems from witnessing a conversation that she knew she shouldn't have.

"I know your discipline, Severus, and while others may doubt your loyalty, I know you to be steadfast and true. Yet I thought, perhaps I hoped, that your determination would be tempered with simple human compassion. I see that I was wrong."

There was a sadness around Dumbledore's eyes that aged him immeasurably. He turned his focus to Hermione.

"I'm afraid that I owe you an apology, Miss Granger. These past months have no doubt been trying for you. It was unfair to involve you in Order business."

Hermione shook her head. Somehow she found her tongue. "I was already involved, sir, from the moment I met Harry on the Hogwarts Express."

Dumbledore smiled faintly.

"Ah, Miss Granger, your logic is, as expected, unassailable. You are already a formidable young witch, lacking only in the wisdom and experience borne of age. Had you been a lesser talent, we would not have thought to involve you at all." Dumbledore patted her gently on the arm. The movement seemed to take something out of him, however. He withdrew from her and after several halting steps lowered himself into the chair behind his desk.

"It is for those of us with years of accumulated experience to protect youth. It is not for us to take advantage of its brilliance, nor to exploit its capacity to trust. I have done both, to Harry and to you, Miss Granger, and for that I am deeply sorry."

Hermione took no pleasure in the apology. If anything it frightened her. It upset the balance of things. That Albus Dumbledore, arguably the most powerful wizard of all time, would apologize to her felt as if the entire world had turned upside down.

"If I may, sir, there's still so much I don't understand," Hermione said. "Why _did _you involve me?"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

"You would think that after these long years I would have learned a thing or two. The truth will out," he said softly. "Best to start with the truth, let it lead you, than to sweep away its footsteps and disguise its path. Once you lose track of it, it is indeed difficult to uncover." Dumbledore straightened in his chair, putting an end to his musings. "There is you see, a prophecy—"

"—Don't," Snape said fiercely. "She will not understand."

Hermione bristled. Snape had insisted on underestimating her from the moment she'd first set foot in his class. She'd lost count of the times he'd told her that she was ill-equipped or incapable of dealing with complex magic. She was tired of being underestimated. She was tired of being shielded from the truth that she so desperately needed.

"I know about the prophecy," she said. "The one about Harry and _You-Know_—Voldemort. It was destroyed at the Ministry of Magic."

"That is true," Dumbledore conceded, "but there is another prophecy, more recent than the one you speak of. Given the trouble at the Ministry it could not be stored there, but rather it has been stored here." Dumbledore touched a hand to his temple. "After the first prophecy was destroyed, Sybill saw again—"

"—Albus, hear me when I say, that she cannot know." Snape stepped from the shadows to press his point. His face was pale, sweat beaded along his brow.

"She must know, Severus. It is no longer a question." Dumbledore turned his pale blue eyes to Hermione. "The second prophecy is more complex. It says that the Dark Lord will be defeated, but not without a sacrifice, something—_someone_—most dear."

_No_, Hermione thought, because the answer had come to her unbidden.

"Harry," she said. "But he… he's the chosen one. He's to succeed. He can't…," her voice trailed off. She couldn't finish the sentence.

"He will succeed, Miss Granger, but at a cost."

"The cost of his life? No!" Hermione said, fighting back tears. "This prophecy, it's just Divination. Silly, stupid Divination!"

"I know you don't wish to believe it. Not one of us wishes to believe it, but I'm afraid you know the truth of my words. Sacrifice is a strong and powerful magic."

"Then there must be a way!" Hermione said desperately. "There must be a way to bring him back!"

"I am sorry." Silence hung on the end of Dumbledore's words.

"But you wanted me to help him! You sent me to find out the Dark Lord's plans so that I could help Harry—so that he could defeat Voldemort! _Why?_ If Harry… if he is… a sacrifice, why did you need me to—?" Hermione stopped. A horrible thought occurred to her. "I'm not helping Harry, am I?"

Dumbledore sighed before he continued. It was a grand sigh, sad and deep.

"There is something else you should know about the second prophecy. As I said, it suggests that Voldemort will be defeated and Harry… lost to us. A great absence will result and the wizarding world will be left without a leader. The prophecy speaks of one who will emerge. It speaks of young Mr. Malfoy."

"Draco?"

"Yes." The old wizard nodded. "Draco in the hands of a certain tutor." Here Dumbledore paused again. At first Hermione thought that perhaps it was for dramatic effect, but then she realized that the Headmaster had no need to waste her time with such fatuous stage business. He was trying to tell her something.

A tutor.

"Me?" she asked.

"Imogene," came the response. "You see, Mr. Malfoy isn't quite the leader one would hope for. His father is a prominent Death Eater as you well know and it seems that Voldemort has taken a particular interest in him, marked him for a special task. It is no small thing to be marked by the Dark Lord, and once marked it is indeed difficult to resist."

Hermione blanched. This talk of marking was giving her a headache. There were scores of Death Eaters who'd been marked and wore the inky evidence of such tattooed on their hides. Harry had been marked and bore the scar to prove it. To be marked was to be chosen and to inherit a certain destiny it seemed. But there was something in her that refused to believe it. It left no room for chance, for the carelessness of circumstance, for free will. It was a fatalistic philosophy, this business of the mark, one that she couldn't help but reject on instinct.

"Mr. Malfoy has been raised to tread in the Dark Lord's footsteps. It is bred in him to continue the war, to pursue Muggles, half-bloods and blood-traitors and wipe them from existence. The hope…" Dumbledore's voice faltered. When he spoke again his voice was barely a whisper. "The hope, dear girl, lies in the tutor. The prophecy is clear about who she is, but not what she will teach."

Hermione was having trouble keeping pace with his words. She heard them all right, but there was a pronounced lag in her understanding as she sought to piece together the truth of the matter at hand.

"It was indeed our hope that as Imogene you would teach Mr. Malfoy that which would allow him to be the leader we deserve. It was our hope that you would teach him love."

Hermione shook her head. Here it was, the truth ostensibly, but there were still so many questions left unanswered. Something about Dumbledore's statement bothered her. What was it? There was an important piece of information missing; something vague, something that she could only barely grasp. It was shocking, then, to hear the question slip from her lips even before it had emerged whole and intact from her consciousness.

"Where is she?" Hermione asked. "Where is Imogene? Why isn't she doing this herself?"

It stood to reason that Imogene LeCoeur existed. She _had_ to. It was as simple as second year Potions class. It was as simple as the requirements of the polyjuice potion; a potion she'd taken countless times, a potion that couldn't have been brewed without a bit of the person one wished to impersonate. All this time and she hadn't thought to ask. _Where was Imogene?_

The silence that met her question was deafening, and in that silence a terrible realization struck.

"She didn't want to do it, did she? She didn't want to teach what you wanted her to teach." Her voice was soft, halting as she guessed the truth.

"She is dead." It was Snape who spoke, his words striking the air with a ring of finality. The Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor watched, his eyes cold, as the young witch in front of him absorbed his words. "The trouble is that you're a clever witch, and as a clever witch you will wonder. It is the curiosity that will drive you to ask that which you do not wish to know—"

"—_Severus_—" Dumbledore cautioned.

"—She is dead, Miss Granger, and has been for some time, but not to worry. I have access to those things that the polyjuice requires: a strand of hair, an eyelash, a bit of fingernail. I have access to the necessary ingredients."

Hermione pushed herself up to standing on shaky legs. She wasn't sure which was worse, that which she was about to learn, or the fact that Snape was right. Her curiosity would drive her to know.

"How did she die?" Hermione asked, her voice hollow. It was the expected question, one that Snape had managed to prompt while discouraging it simultaneously. He drew breath to answer, malice in his eyes, but he was too slow. Hermione beat him to it; quick wit once a blessing, now a curse. "You killed her," she answered her own question dully.

The weight of it hit her. She could barely stand. She stumbled toward the door of the Headmaster's office. _Murder. Imogene murdered._

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore called after her to no avail. She'd crossed the threshold and was on the stairs before the sound died, hands scraping along the walls of the spiral staircase, slipping, stumbling toward the unknown.

**OOO**

They were hiding her. He was convinced. One of them knew where she was; the dim-witted Weasel perhaps, most likely to follow her about like a lost Pygmy Puff. Only the Weasel was nowhere to be found in the seventh floor corridor outside the not-so-secret entrance to the Gryffindor common room.

Draco had been looking for Hermione Granger. It was twice now that he'd thought he'd seen her somewhere she couldn't possibly have been, and twice was two times too many. Something was going on and she knew the truth of it. Only she'd disappeared.

Footsteps in the otherwise deserted corridor. Draco took a step back, melting into the shadows, using a nearby suit of armor to hide his presence. A particularly chatty portrait made to address him and ruin his cover, but he quelled it with a look—a rather nasty hitch of the Malfoy brows over stormy grey eyes laced with threat. The inhabitant of the portrait blanched and ran away bawling, a tearstained handkerchief clasped in her chubby fingers.

The footsteps in the hall stopped, the commotion with the portrait having alerted whoever it was to Draco's presence.

"Sod it all," he muttered. He stepped out from behind the suit of armor only to find himself face to face with the Boy Who Lived. Harry's wand was drawn and leveled at him.

"Little early to be lurking about isn't it, Potter?" Draco asked.

"I'm not the one lurking, Malfoy. That's for snakes and Slytherins." Technically, Harry was right. After all, he hadn't been the one skulking about in the shadows making the portraits cry.

"Snakes and Slytherins. How charming," Draco said. "There's no question that I'm the Slytherin in this equation, so I guess that makes you the snake, Parselmouth."

Harry stiffened. It was all too easy with Potter. He had the sensibilities of a hero which led him to be easily offended. Draco felt a familiar grin begin to tug at the corner of his mouth, but he stopped the smirk before it even started. He didn't have time to indulge in the usual bout of cat and mouse with Potter.

"Where is she?" Draco asked.

"What?" Harry said. He'd been busy picturing himself pounding Draco's face with his fists, so the question took him by surprise.

"You may be thick, Potter, but I know you're not deaf. Do I have to say it in Parseltongue? Where is Granger?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "What do you want with Hermione?"

"None of your business," Draco replied. He would've liked to have thought that he replied coolly, but the truth of the matter was that he heard the edge in his own voice. It hadn't been there a moment ago, but there was something about the way Harry had said her name that caused his control to slip.

Draco didn't like it. He'd said her name as if she belonged to him and him alone. It was very clear, even though Potter hadn't said it, that she was _his _Hermione, and that Draco had no business asking her whereabouts.

Whether Draco had replied coolly or otherwise, it was of no consequence to Harry. He didn't like Draco's reply period. It made no difference how it had been delivered. To that end, Harry took a step toward him. The tip of his wand met Draco's chest dead center, lodging itself squarely against his sternum.

"Don't," Draco said sharply. "Not unless you plan to use it."

"Piss off, Malfoy." With a sharp flick of his wrist, Harry ground the tip of his wand into Draco's flesh. Draco stood stock still in warning.

"So be it, Potter," he said, his voice soft with quiet menace. "I'll find her anyway. The choice is yours. Are you a help or a hindrance?"

The two boys stood in stony silence for a moment that would later be known as the moment it took Harry to decide that he'd had enough. Malfoy was vermin. He'd clearly been up to something all year. There was no good that could come of him. Harry understood this. He understood it in a way that even Dumbledore couldn't.

He could've hexed Draco point-blank on the spot, but there was something infinitely more satisfying in feeling the crunch of his curled fingers against the flesh of Malfoy's face. Harry hauled off and punched Draco in the nose, and it had required the intimacy of his bare hands.

Draco staggered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Blood smeared across his skin. "A hindrance, then," he murmured, before he lunged at Harry.

**OOO**

She was running. She must have been running for a while if the stitch in her side were any indication. It was foolish, really. Of all the means there were of getting from one place to another, she had chosen the one that was the most Muggle and the least efficient. Granted, it hadn't been a conscious choice. Her legs had carried her, seemingly driven her from Dumbledore's office and out of the castle. She'd been running blindly for who knew how long, and when she finally drew to a stop, the sky was blotted out by a thick canopy of trees.

Hermione leaned against the gnarled bark of an ancient willow, doubled-over and gasping for breath. It had been something of a relief to run to the point of exhaustion, to become absorbed in the movement and function of her body, to rely wholly on the workings of the extraordinary machine which had carried her, legs churning, arms pumping, from the suddenly desperately claustrophobic corridors of Hogwarts castle. She should have known, however, that it was only a matter of time before logic asserted itself and she'd be forced to grapple with what she had learned and where, precisely, she was.

From the looks of it she was deep in the Forbidden Forest, the ground mossy and uneven beneath her feet. It was quite possibly the least comforting place she could think of, and she realized that that was what she had been seeking: comfort, solace.

The forest offered neither. Its rarefied air often bore the scent of hostility, a pungent, tangy odor designed to discourage those reluctant to observe its rules and acquiesce to its desires. It permitted humans entrance, but the permission was often fleeting and liable to be revoked at a moment's notice. It did not welcome a slip of a girl, troubled and exhausted, though she might be. It made no difference that she was witch, Muggle, or just plain vulnerable. The forest didn't care.

Hermione sank to her knees, feeling utterly alone in a place more likely to offer harm than refuge. She was thinking about the dead girl, the one she'd been living as—or maybe_ living for_.

She was shaking, she realized, her skin cool and clammy to the touch. _Like a corpse_, she thought. It was her own skin, but she couldn't help thinking that she had worn the skin of a dead girl, walked in it, loved in it, and that the skin was angry.

It would have its revenge.

**OOO**

It was those hero's sensibilities again. They were fouling things up, making Potter think that there was something to be gained by showing mercy and turning from hate. Draco knew better, he understood the nature of hate, had been taught it from a very early age. Hate was instinct, and instinct was nothing to be trifled with. Chances were if you hated something it was because it was a threat. It could harm you, kill you even. Hate made it possible to eliminate the threat before it eliminated you. Hate, then, was power, the power to vanquish.

The trouble with Potter was simply that he didn't understand hate. He couldn't give in to his capacity for it. Draco had no such scruples. It was how he had come to be sitting on Potter's chest, his wand shoved into the boy's armpit, his face inches from the cracked glasses wrenched askew across the bridge of the boy's nose.

Draco was staring at the zigzag scar, blood dripping from his face on to the broken lenses of Harry's spectacles. Whatever the scar was it hadn't helped him any. It made no difference that the Dark Lord had given it to him. Draco pressed a finger to the scar and watched as Harry winced squeezing his eyes shut.

Potter was feeble. He wasn't a champion, wasn't a leader, and obviously wasn't a match for Voldemort if he couldn't manage to get past a rather angry and determined schoolmate. Granted, Draco was no average schoolmate, but he certainly shouldn't have presented an obstacle for the wizard who thought to best the Dark Lord.

Harry's lips were moving, seemingly without sound. As close as Draco was, he couldn't hear him, though he knew instinctively that Harry was trying to speak. Draco turned his ear to Harry's mouth, angling to hear the dry, cracked voice which made its way, constricted, from Harry's throat.

"Go on…" Harry said, "…finish…"

Draco could feel the boy's labored breathing, chest struggling to rise and fall beneath his weight. He knew what it was to be that boy, to have the weight on his chest, the wand driven into the tender flesh at the pit of his arm. Lucius perched on his chest, brilliant pale hair hanging down above his face. Draco with his eyes squeezed shut as his father sought to drive the weakness from him. There was no room for weakness. It had no place.

Draco cast the spell wordlessly. There was no escaping it, the tip of his wand lodged in the vulnerable area beneath Harry's arm. He watched as the boy's eyes snapped open, hazy and unfocused. Harry had long since stopped screaming. His body simply rocked in a silent spasm of pain as the spell wound its way through him. His lips drew together in a tight line, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth where he'd bitten his own tongue.

Draco closed his eyes, felt the tangy, salty taste of blood on his own lips, whether his or Potter's he wasn't sure. He only knew that there was no room for weakness. It had no place. _Finish_, he thought. _Finish._

He opened his eyes. Two thick-soled black boots cut into his periphery. Draco stared at the boots, eventually lifting his eyes to see Snape standing over him. It was impossible to say how long the professor had been standing there. Clearly he had come upon them with near soundless movement.

Snape looked down at the two of them with the kind of impassive detachment which had become his hallmark. He regarded them a moment, curious to see what kind of damage they had done to each other. There were thin bloody slashes along Draco's arms and face, as if he'd dodged the Sectumsempra Curse, but caught its nasty residue like shrapnel from an explosive device. Potter looked, in a word, broken.

Snape cocked his head and sighed, before he tucked his fingers behind Draco's collar and pulled him bodily from Harry. He snatched the wand from Draco's hand, shook it once and hissed, "_Priori Incantato_."

The wand shuddered and seemed to groan as it leaked the ghostly residue of the last spell it had cast: the Cruciatus Curse. Snape studied the boys, the tumbled suit of armor and singed tapestries in the hall, and began to form an idea of the fight which had taken place before he'd arrived. It had been lengthy and heated, no doubt, with Draco unafraid to move beyond the schoolyard hexes and basic defensive spells that Hogwarts ingrained in its students.

That Draco had cast the Cruciatus, repeatedly if Potter's limp form were any indication, told Snape that the battle had most likely been one-sided. Potter hadn't stood a chance.

He saw it more or less; Potter leading with his fists, brash and unthinking like his father. Draco responding in kind, perhaps shoving the boy against the stone wall, hoping to do damage at close quarters until one or the other of them realized that they were wizards, not Muggle fools.

Perhaps Potter drew first, using the kind of clumsy magic only the talentless could manage; something blunt, unsubtle and unlikely to do permanent damage, a body-bind maybe, or a disarming spell.

Draco would retaliate with something flashy and dangerous, perhaps Fiendfyre, scorching the tapestries. The boy was dramatic and ruthless in his spellwork, a trait no doubt inherited from his father.

A Blasting Curse narrowly evaded had certainly been the ruin of Potter's glasses, and Draco looked as if he'd caught the wrong end of a Conjunctivitis Curse judging from the swelling around his eyes.

Snape had it right more or less, but there was one thing that he couldn't deduce from the evidence around him, one thing that he couldn't see. He couldn't see, could never have seen, the moment of mercy. He couldn't have known that Harry had once had the upper hand, having driven Draco to the ground, crippling him with a quick volley of hexes, leaving him vulnerable to the one curse that would put a permanent end to their rivalry.

Snape would never see how in that moment Harry would find himself and know himself for the first time. Harry would know that he was many things, but that he wasn't a killer. He was not that. He would never be that. He may be a boy, lost; he may even be the Boy Who Lost, but he was not a killer. Harry had stayed his wand and turned from the fight, leaving Draco to exercise his hate.

Both boys were badly damaged and in need of care. At last, Snape stirred and spoke into the silence.

"Casting an Unforgivable Curse is… unforgivable, Draco."

Still clutching Draco's wand, Snape cast a spell which lifted Harry's broken body into the air. He turned and began walking down the empty corridor levitating Harry's unconscious form in front of him.

Draco followed behind, his gait labored, in the rear of the grim procession, unrepentant and unforgiven.

**OOO**

"Potter is in the Hospital Wing. Draco was treated and is recovering in my office. I thought it best to separate the two of them," Snape explained.

"We've failed them, Severus," Dumbledore said.

Snape shook his head. "I'm afraid some sort of confrontation between the two of them was inevitable. They are who they are."

"Indeed, and knowing who they are we could have prevented it."

"This business of prevention is giving me a headache," Snape said dryly.

Dumbledore rose from the chair behind his desk. "And what is it that caused the confrontation?"

"Miss Granger, ostensibly."

"Then Draco knows?"

"No, but it is as I feared. He finds himself drawn to her for reasons he can't explain."

"It is time, Severus. We have waited long enough, perhaps too long." Dumbledore crossed to the door.

"Where are you going, Albus?"

"To find Miss Granger. No one has seen her since she fled my office."

"That won't be necessary. She'll come back of her own accord."

"I doubt that she'll want to return to us. When she left she was under the impression that we betrayed her and murdered a young girl."

"It doesn't matter," Snape shrugged. "She needs the potion. Without it she'll fall ill."

Dumbledore stopped and turned to face the former Potions Master.

"What do you mean, Severus? There are no such side effects of the polyjuice potion. It is not addictive."

"You are correct, _polyjuice_ is not, but Miss Granger has been taking my own particular brew."

"_Severus_." Dumbledore's brows drew together.

"From the beginning I knew that she would fail us. She is a Gryffindor, after all. They are known for their courage and daring, but I have noticed that they are selectively courageous. Often they are decidedly weak in the face of what needs to be done."

Dumbledore sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk, knowing that, once Snape finished speaking, the failure of his legs would be imminent.

"Therefore, I created a kind of fail-safe in the plan. She needs the potion," Snape said softly. "Her body requires it. Miss Granger is an addict."

**OOO**

I know. It took me way too long to update. But I'm buckling down, really. New chapter soon.

Next up: the origins of **the perverted polyjuice potion** and **a dead girl's revenge**! Hmm, not bad titles for the next chapter.


	12. A Creature of Will

**Chapter 12: A Creature of Will**

The forest was angry. The centaur could feel it in the dense damp soil which crumbled beneath his hooves. There was a kind of current, a pulse in the earth, which spoke the moods of the forest. Whether it was the humming of the creatures that inhabited the soil or the vibration of those who walked upon it, he had no way of knowing. Perhaps it was a current caused by the roots of the ancient trees as they burrowed beneath the ground, twisting and driving their way down toward an inevitable hell. He simply did not know.

He did know that when the forest was in such a mood it often meant that there was a disturbance somewhere within its leafy bounds. The last time he had felt such disquiet an evil had taken root, a creature at half-life had walked among them, stalking unicorns and slaying them to drink their blood. Such things were not abided by the forest or its inhabitants. Such creatures were driven out, exorcised, and balance restored.

So when he came upon the human girl curled at the base of the ancient willow he wondered if she were the cause of the disturbance, if it was she who had struck the chord and sounded the imbalance. He watched her, not knowing what she was capable of, from a dense thicket of browns and greens which blended with the sleek coat of his body keeping him hidden among the foliage.

She was shivering and he wondered at it. It was true that humans were ill-equipped to manage the cold without their garments; they were a relatively bald race of creatures. Yet it was a mild evening; heat packed beneath the soil which gave off warmth like coal in a furnace. The wind was gentle, balmy.

He struck out from behind the thicket and circled closer. She was pale, sweat beaded along her brow. She did not look well.

"Girl," he said, at a loss for how to address her.

She turned unfocused eyes to him. Her shivering continued, this time more violently. She was chilled to the bone, teeth chattering, eyes large, pupils dilated.

"Polyjuice," she murmured.

A witch, then, the centaur thought, from the school perhaps. He didn't like them much. Magical humans weren't much better than the regular kind. He stepped back, hind legs striking out behind him, easing his body away from her and back toward the thicket.

It was possible that she was the source of the unrest and he had a choice: summon the herd and drive her out or simply forget he'd found her at all. She did not look well. Perhaps if he left her here alone, the problem would solve itself. After all, there were many creatures in the forest that lacked the ability to reason; they would simply react to the presence of one so foreign, destroying her as hunger bade them.

He might have left if her eyes hadn't focused at last and turned, pleading, to his face.

"Please," she said.

Something about the word struck him. The girl had manners, he thought, and somehow he knew that she was not a creature who would slay unicorns. It remained to be seen what kind of creature she was, but the manners at least had bought her the chance to show him.

**OOO**

Draco prodded his flesh experimentally. He'd seen the torn skin heal, knitting itself together, resolving into gleaming welts and seeping weals, suppurating briefly before mending completely, leaving little trace of the damage it had sustained. Snape was indeed adept at healing. Draco remained sore, but he was whole once again and comforted by the notion of being intact.

Snape had instructed him to remain here in his office until he returned. There was a punishment due no doubt, and Draco had to wonder what it would consist of. Surely casting the Cruciatus on another student would result in more than the simple deduction of house points and a tedious detention. He shook his head. It didn't matter. The discipline at Hogwarts was positively benign relative to the discipline at the manor, which tended toward the medieval.

The door to Snape's office opened and Draco rose to his feet, expecting that the professor would greet him somewhat displeased with his actions. Somewhat, but not thoroughly; it was Potter who'd been on the receiving end of the Unforgivable Curse after all and it was no secret that Snape despised Potter.

It was not Snape who entered the office, however. Lucius Malfoy crossed the threshold looking well-groomed as ever but also quite put out. He strode toward his son, clearly in a fury. Draco barely had time to notice the silvered head of his father's cane, light glinting from its surface, before Lucius was upon him, the cane swinging toward his face.

Draco didn't flinch. His father may have been angry, but they both knew that he wouldn't strike. The cane was reserved solely for wayward house elves and Muggles; it would never be stained with Malfoy blood. As predicted, Lucius drew up short, the cane coming to rest mere inches from his son's face.

"What am I to do with you, boy?" Lucius asked gruffly.

Draco held his tongue knowing a rhetorical question when he heard one.

Lucius grabbed Draco by the arm and jerked him roughly from the room. "Fortunately, it is no longer for me to decide."

**OOO**

The moment he touched her, the centaur knew that something was wrong. She was not a half-life creature at all, but rather there were two lives about her, twined somehow, and in conflict.

He carried her in his arms, picking his way through the forest. She was feverish to the touch, yet she continued to shiver against him.

The herd would not be pleased that he had brought one so foreign among them. Yet, he knew that they would be powerless to resist such a creature whose seeming duality clouded her fate. She was a challenge to prophesy, the likes of which he'd not seen in some time.

**OOO**

Lucius shoved him hard enough so that he went stumbling into the drawing room. Draco regained his footing just in time to nearly lose it again as his mother flung herself into his arms.

"Steady, Narcissa," Lucius said coldly.

Narcissa ignored him and continued to hug her son fiercely.

"_Mum_," Draco murmured. She was squeezing the life out of him, but if that were the price of her love he would gladly pay it. She was the only source of affection here at the manor; one that he often feared would one day run dry.

Narcissa released him finally, dashing tears from her eyes. She ran her fingers over his face, his shoulders and down along his arms, making sure that he was whole, that he was her son as she remembered him. She grabbed the left sleeve of his shirt and pushed it up to his elbow, her fingers tracing the flesh on the underside of his forearm. The skin was bare as she remembered, save for two pale round scars. Narcissa dropped his arm then, stepping away from her son, blinking back tears.

"Leave us," Lucius said to his wife. Narcissa narrowed her eyes in challenge, but at the last moment decided to abide by her husband's request. Hers was a war to be waged carefully and above all in subtle fashion. She withdrew from the drawing room but not without one last gentle glance at her son.

Lucius stripped off his traveling cloak and tossed the garment over the back of an armchair. His anger, palpable since the moment he'd seen Draco at Hogwarts, had not abated in the least.

"It is your actions which have brought us here," he informed his son. "You nearly killed Potter."

Draco blinked in mild confusion. Lucius was angry, and granted it didn't take much to make Lucius angry, because he had used an Unforgivable Curse on his enemy, and not just any enemy, _the_ enemy. It didn't make sense.

"I'm sorry, Father," Draco said, "but I was under the impression that that was what you had trained me to do."

"Stop your foolish tongue this instant! I will not abide such flippancy." Lucius stalked across the room. He stopped in front of an ancient chaise and threw himself down onto it with a vengeance. The furniture creaked in protest. "I have trained you, groomed you, to carry out the orders of our most revered Dark Lord." It certainly sounded like Lucius to say such, but the words came out somewhat louder than they should have been, almost as if he were saying them for the benefit of someone else. "And surely you are aware of the Dark Lord's wishes to vanquish the Potter boy himself."

Draco nodded slowly as realization dawned.

"It would not do for one to destroy Potter and in so doing deprive the Dark Lord of his greatest desire. So it seems, my son, that you have overstepped your bounds."

"I am to be punished, then?" Draco asked, a sense of dread tightening his throat.

"You are to… make amends. Whether that includes punishment, it is not for me to say."

"Who, then? Who is to say?"

"The Dark Lord himself." Lucius rose to his feet. "He is here and he wishes to speak to you."

**OOO**

Hermione woke to the sound of hushed voices. She was shivering despite the warmth of a large fire which gleamed in the dark a short distance away. She lay curled in the grass of a clearing. The sky hung low, heavy and dark above her. To her right a cluster of equine shapes caught the dappled light cast by the fire.

"Is it because you cannot scry her, Glamis, that you fear her so?"

"I do not fear her, Lucan, but she is most unnatural. Two fates, one body; an impossibility and yet here she is," Glamis answered. He stood taller than the rest. The firelight flickered along his coat making it difficult to distinguish the color.

Hermione realized that the centaurs were talking about her. She thought it best to remain silent and still.

"We ought to be rid of her." A third voice joined the first two. "Don't like witches much. You'll be recalling the last one as paid us a visit."

"I recall," Lucan said. "You speak of the ministry witch, Cawdor."

Cawdor gave a derisive snort. "That's right, the roly-poly one with the gruesome fate."

"Dyspepsia, gruesome?" Glamis asked. "For her perhaps."

"There are plenty of herbs here in the forest that would cure such ailments," said Lucan.

"She was not deserving of them or of our knowledge," Glamis replied.

"And this one is?" asked Cawdor.

"This one harms no one," Lucan said.

"We don't know that. She angers the forest."

"The forest has been angry for some time. I doubt that the little one is the cause."

"You are partial to her, Lucan, because you found her. She is not a foal to be dandled and coddled," said Glamis. "This one is passing strange."

"It is none of our affair what she is. If the stars in the heavens do not tell us, the planets, the runes; then it is not worth knowing." The three centaurs turned their heads to see who had spoken. It was a bearded roan who'd joined them by the fire.

"She has confounded the stars," Lucan murmured.

"A right sympathizer in our midst; another Firenze," Cawdor scoffed.

"No." Lucan shook his head, tossing his hair which was long and crept down his back, not unlike a mane. "But I have thought that if we cannot scry her, then there is a reason for it. It is perhaps because she is the portent, she is the sign."

"She is the cipher, more like," said Cawdor.

"Perhaps she is here to tell us that we can no longer rely on the stars or the old ways for answers. Those ways did not protect us or the forest, or the creatures that inhabit it." Lucan began to pace around the fire, hooves striking the earth in a soft tattoo which kept rhythm with his thoughts. "She is a creature of twined fate, a departure, a new beginning. We cannot read her fate, because there is more than one. Those fates are in conflict and she must choose."

"It is fate," Glamis said. "There is no choosing."

"For us perhaps," Lucan said, his eyes bright, "but she is a new creature, a creature of will."

**OOO**

Malfoy Manor was busy. Draco noticed the heightened state of activity as he walked through the main hall. House elves scurried about, carrying armloads of linens, making ready for what appeared to be a grand event. No doubt it was the Dark Lord's presence that had thrown everyone into a tizzy.

He'd been told that Voldemort had set up an audience chamber of sorts in the ballroom, which, consequently, was the largest room in the house. _More of a throne room now,_ Draco thought, as he approached the massive double doors which lead to the chamber.

Nott and Mulciber stood sentinel outside the doors. When they saw Draco, they nodded and stepped aside. The large doors creaked inward of their own accord, allowing him entry into the Dark Lord's presence. _Like royalty_, Draco thought, his lip curling with a touch of irony. The Malfoys had always considered themselves something of royalty, and now they had finally been outranked here in their own home.

At first Draco saw nothing but the cloaked figures of Death Eaters, scattered and milling about the room. At his entry they turned and resolved themselves into two parallel lines facing each other, which formed a path that led to Voldemort's throne. The throne itself was nothing more than a cordovan wingchair, one of a set from his father's study.

Voldemort gestured with long, pale fingers for the boy to approach. Draco obeyed, walking through the ranks of Death Eaters to stop in front of the Dark Lord's chair. There was a small part of Draco that found the whole situation entirely ludicrous, while the larger part of him walked in terror. He took refuge in protocol and sketched a bow, remaining low until the Dark Lord spoke.

"Rise, Master Malfoy," Voldemort said. "I bid you welcome to your own home." Then the oddest thing happened. Voldemort chuckled. He dismissed his court with a wave of his thin, spidery fingers. The attendant Death Eaters filed from the room leaving only the two of them. "And now I shall stand, shall I? Sitting is for when one wishes to intimidate. I trust that you are properly intimidated by now and so you shan't mind if I take to my feet."

Voldemort rose from the chair, pushing back the hood of his cloak to reveal his pale white face, skin stretched taut across the sharp bones of his skull. His red eyes gleamed, slit-pupiled and sharp above the nose that wasn't a nose—rather a pair of nostril slits flat in the parchment-thin skin of his face. He was altogether otherworldly, and it was difficult to believe that he had once been a boy like Draco, a boy called Tom. On his feet Voldemort was tall, thin and much more intimidating than when seated. The dark wizard had quite frankly lied.

Draco lowered his eyes in an effort to gather his thoughts. He was to make his apologies and do whatever the Dark Lord wished. It seemed simple enough but he knew that doing Voldemort's bidding was often fraught with complications such as murder or death.

"I am sorry, my lord," Draco said quietly. "My father tells me I've displeased you."

"I'm going to confide in you, Draco. Your father is a most useful servant, but he is, in sum, an imbecile."

"Sir?"

"He believes I have summoned you here to punish you for your actions, when the truth is that I am envious."

"Envious?"

"You have had the Potter boy in your grasp, have you not?"

Draco nodded.

"I have, too, but every time he manages to slip through my fingers. There is always interference, some business with our wands or some such, or your Headmaster contriving to protect him. But you, my boy, have watched your Cruciatus Curse twist through the boy's body."

Draco listened carefully to the play of the Dark Lord's speech, the way his voice wound its way around words, dispatching diphthongs with ease and lingering to appreciate sibilants.

"What did it feel like, Draco, when you cast the curse; all that power in you, doing as you bid?"

Draco thought that it was hard to put into words. He had cast the curse and it had been familiar. Familiarity bred one of two things: comfort or contempt. He was comfortable with the curse, with the hate that fueled it, with the power that hate had given him. Yet there was some small part of him that found itself contemptuous of his own actions. There was some small part of him which had felt, quite simply, sick. It was then that he realized: he had lost his appetite for destruction.

"Speak, boy," Voldemort prompted.

"It felt… like magic," Draco finished lamely. The Dark Lord threw back his head and roared with laughter.

"Why of course it did! Foolish of me to even ask. You are quite formidable, Draco. I see that I was indeed wise to choose you for such a delicate task."

Draco lowered his eyes. It was a task that he'd neglected and even sabotaged.

"You have grown strong, and there is something to be said for such strength. It is indeed an asset, but if not properly harnessed it could become a threat. Therefore it is time."

With a quickness that belied his stately presence, Voldemort grasped Draco's wrist, seizing it with wiry strength between his thin fingers.

"You shall have your mark, Master Malfoy," the Dark Lord said evenly. His eyes darkened and his voice grew harsh. Draco knew in that instant that the earlier pleasantries were counterfeit; he'd been subject to farce. "Let the mark guide you on your task and memorialize your debt to me, for there is indeed a debt for such graciousness on my part. That I spare your life, the lives of your parents, and the life of a certain girl who I understand has become most precious to you, is not without its price. You will pay without complaint."

Voldemort released his wrist with such force that Draco staggered backward. "And you will never again seek to injure that which is mine to destroy."

**OOO**

The half-giant was blubbering again. He was an enormous creature, and as such he encompassed many things; both the wheat and the chaff, the corn and the husk; but mostly he was full of heart and tears.

When he saw the girl he knew her instantly, spoke her name and took her limp shivering form in his arms.

"It appears one of your foals has strayed," Lucan said.

"Yeh found her, yeh did. I'll be thankin' yeh righ' kindly fer it."

"Mind your creatures, Hagrid, especially this one. The fates fight over her."

Hagrid bristled. "Curse the ruddy fates! Tha's Hermione yer talkin' about. She's no creature, she's my friend!"

The half-giant turned and, carrying the girl in his arms, tromped back through the forest the way he had come, all the while muttering about the star-gazing foolishness of centaurs.

**OOO**

The hooded figures were witnesses, witnesses all. They closed in on him, in a sea of dark cloaks, hoods obscuring their faces. They circled him and then the circle collapsed inward, buckling as if under the influence of some unseen centripetal force. The mass of Death Eaters crushed his body between them. As one they surged forward and he was swept along in the crush, buoyed by their suffocating nearness.

At the sound of the Dark Lord's voice they fell back instantly, resolving into a wide circle around him. Draco stumbled to his knees, a fixed point to anchor the arc of a compass, a reluctant origin. He was naked to the waist, his shirt having been stripped away at the start of the ceremony which was in his mind either minutes or hours ago.

He'd been awake for more than twenty-four hours, having kept the required vigil prior to receiving the mark. The resulting lack of sleep had warped his perception of time. Whether it had run slowly or very quickly, he was not at liberty to say. He was stuck in the present moment which stretched out in front of him into eternity.

Narcissa was among the ranks of Death Eaters that formed the circumference of the circle. She watched her son, terrified for him. He was just a boy, she kept thinking, even though as she looked at him she realized that it wasn't true. There was strength in him, in his arms, his shoulders, the lean cast of his body, which seemed suddenly newly defined; the traces of the boy had been all but whittled away. She wondered when it had happened, and stifled a sob.

The Dark Lord was speaking. Draco heard the sounds, but not the words. He felt hollow, empty. There was a reason for it. The fast had lasted nearly twenty-four hours as well. There was nothing in him, literally. It was as required. He was nothing until the Dark Lord made him something. He was an empty vessel of pure, pure blood.

The rules of the ritual were arcane, but they appeared to be buttressed by an ascetic belief that through the discipline of self-denial the initiate could achieve a heightened awareness that prepared him to be touched by the divinity of the Dark Lord. Somewhere, somehow, Draco knew all of this and none of it. He felt only the sluggish throb of the blood in his veins, heard only the sound of the Dark Lord's voice as if from a distance.

The question was asked. _Who offers this boy?_ Narcissa could not bring herself to move. She watched as a cloaked figure stepped forward and knew it to be Lucius. The figure paused, expecting her to join him, but her feet would not move. After a moment, another hooded figure emerged from the circle. Narcissa could not see the face, but she knew the figure by its quick, darting movements. It was her sister Bella.

Draco's eyes were on the ground in front of him. The Dark Lord stood over him and he knew not to look into his face. He felt rather than saw the two figures that approached him, and a familiar grasp caught his left wrist and jerked his arm forward, exposing the underside. The grip told him that it was his father. The desperation in the fingers told him that his father knew that he was about to be supplanted by a new authority, a fact which Lucius was loathe to accept. Lucius had no choice, however. As it had been with him, so it would be with his son. He handed Draco's wrist over to the Dark Lord's grasp.

At first Voldemort's touch was exceedingly, perhaps deceptively, gentle. Then the words were spoken and his long, spidery fingers tightened their grip. The Dark Lord drew his wand. The tip glowed, burning brightly, like a coal in a hearth. The light was harsh and magnificent, impudent and almost blinding. Draco was forced to turn his eyes away, but he shouldn't have. He shouldn't have because that's when it happened.

The wand touched his skin, searing the flesh of his arm. The flesh blackened and crumpled. It charred and flaked away from his arm, exposing layers of tissue and muscle beneath. The smell of burning flesh was sickening, and the pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It was a new agony, hot and bright, greedy to usurp all other sensation. There was nothing but the pain as the tip of the wand dragged across his skin, leaving raw tissue in its wake. This was refining fire, Draco realized, purifying and terrible.

He felt darkness close in on him. Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging them. His vision blurred at the edges. He was reluctant, then, to trust his eyes when they showed him that his flesh was regenerating. It had grown anew, resurfacing the raw tissue, but this new skin grew back discolored. It was a molten, inky black. The new flesh took form, resolving itself into the lines of the Dark Mark.

Words were spoken and Draco was hauled to his feet. The newly minted mark throbbed and then the darkness was complete. The circle was broken and Draco collapsed into the sea of hooded figures, which bore him up and carried him from the chamber.

**OOO**

"You may place her there," Snape said, indicating a cot which had been prepared for that purpose.

Hagrid didn't budge. He stood immobile holding an unconscious Hermione in his arms. He was the largest one in the small, dark room at the bottom of the enchanted stairs, head dusting the ceiling, towering over Snape and the minimal furniture present.

The trip to Spinner's End had not been easy. Hagrid was an extremely noticeable figure with an extremely noticeable means of transportation. He was not often sent on missions of stealth into Muggle neighborhoods, with the exception of collecting Harry for the very first time. Even then, it had not been so much a stealth mission as an opportunity to use his stupendous size to intimidate the Dursleys. Dumbledore had explained that this current foray into Spinner's End was to be taken with the utmost discretion. In other words, Hagrid was to stay out of sight of Muggles.

Dumbledore hadn't explained, however, why he should deliver Hermione to Snape in the first place. Dumbledore had a habit of that, not explaining much. It was right frustrating at times, but it seemed to be the way of great wizards to leave out the important bits. Hagrid accepted it from Dumbledore, but he didn't trust Snape enough to extend him that courtesy. He would not put Hermione down before he put his foot down and got some answers.

"I'm not puttin' her anywhere until yeh tell me wha's wrong with her and why I brought her here ter yeh instead of ter the Hospital Wing."

"Miss Granger is ill and my expertise is needed in the matter."

"Well, no offense, but I wouldn't want yeh fer my healer. Yer powerful, but not so cheerful as a bloke would be wantin' yeh nursin' him back ter health."

"I fail to see what being cheerful has to do with anything," Snape replied crisply. "Put the girl down."

Hagrid glowered at Snape. He took one look at Hermione, however, and his concern for the girl trumped his mistrust of the former Potions Master. He relented and set her down gently on the cot. "Yeh can fix this?" Hagrid asked.

Snape simply looked at him as he would into the eyes of a dull and brutish beast. Instead of answering, he tried a different tack.

"It seems I should thank you for retrieving Miss Ganger. The centaurs are less than fond of me. They find certain similarities between myself and the late Professor Quirell."

"Meanin' yer both creepy," Hagrid said, only belatedly realizing that what he had meant to be a guarded thought had been voiced aloud.

"Creepy?" Snape arched one sharp black brow. It crept upward on his forehead nearly meeting his hairline. "A scientific term no doubt."

"Well, I ought ter be gettin' back ter the castle. Yeh be careful of her, now," Hagrid said gruffly. "Yeh make her well."

Severus Snape looked at the pale girl on the cot before him.

"I shall do as is required," he said.

**OOO**

He was relatively unscathed. The only bit of him burned was his throat where the firewhisky had streaked a path only moments before. He shouldn't have had the drink. He stomach rebelled, threatening to expel the potent liquid. Draco fought the wave of nausea and counted his lesson learned. Never, ever again.

They were congratulating him, all of them: Aunt Bella and Uncle Rodolphus, the Notts, the Carrows, the Bulstrodes, the pureblood families. The hooded cloaks were gone and they had gathered, in all of their finery, in the ballroom for a celebration. The ballroom was clearly where the house elves had focused their labors. There were tables laden with food and drink, enchanted ice sculptures and elaborate floral arrangements of varying sizes. A group of musicians played softly, providing an elegant rhythmic backdrop to what was already a cacophony of noise and sound.

He was overwhelmed. He had gone from feeling utter emptiness during the ritual, to feeling that there was too much inside him. The profusion of light, color and sound that was this macabre ball didn't help. It made him skittish, pushed as he was to the point of utter saturation.

Draco felt Lucius watching him from across the room. His father was holding court among the high ranking Death Eaters, members of Voldemort's inner circle. He was free to do so as Voldemort himself was not present. Lucius was pleased to be the center of attention, but his eyes when he looked at Draco were hard. There was no warmth in them.

There were too many people in the room. They were incredibly loud and incredibly close. Draco couldn't breathe. It put him in mind of the ritual when the cloaked figures had closed in on him. He looked at the faces of the people in the ballroom, trying to connect with someone, but he realized that he couldn't. He was somehow isolated despite his close proximity to the madding crowd.

Draco fought his way free of the ballroom and stumbled out into the hall. It was suddenly violently quiet in comparison. There were guests scattered about talking softly in twos or threes. He managed to avoid them all and slip into the cool darkness of a nearby alcove.

He sat on the floor, hunched, with his head between his knees. The feeling of fullness returned as if he'd absorbed too much. The mark on his arm throbbed suddenly with pain and with presence. It was a curious feeling: the presence of another in him, in his flesh, connected to his body. It was a feeling that Draco didn't like at all. He thought with the petulance of a small child that he didn't want to share. His mind and body were his own. That was no longer true, however, and he knew it.

It was a funny thing, his memory of the ceremony. It was warped and battered, whole sections of it were lost to him. Most of the words he could not recall, having heard them through the fog of his vigil and his fast. But there were parts of it that leapt up bright and clear in his consciousness, words which were burned forever in his mind as surely as the mark had been burned into the flesh of his arm. Those words came back to him now as spoken by Voldemort.

"Your will is mine, your fate is mine, your life is mine in duty and in service as your Lord. Rise, Draco Malfoy and devour death."

Draco pushed himself to standing in the coolness of the alcove, knowing that he was no longer his own man. It angered him. If he were to give his life to someone then he wanted to choose. The choice, however, had been made for him. It was done.

Having been offered, he had nothing left to offer her.

**OOO**

There was a goddess on his doorstep. Snape stared at her. Where she had come from he could not fathom. She stood without a cloak in the cold night air, pale blonde hair piled elaborately on top of her head. Her hair was as elaborate as her dress, a gown the color of elf-made wine which bared one shoulder even as it fastened over the other. Her breath fogged in the frigid air as it escaped her lips, the only trace of warmth about her. The rest was ice.

She slapped him.

That was the thing about goddesses. They were often inexplicably angry.

The illusion shattered, Snape made her a formal bow that managed to be both ironic and patronizing. He straightened, the sting of her fingers still on his cheek, and stepped aside to allow Narcissa Malfoy entrance into his humble home.

Narcissa pushed past him into the sitting room, her confection of a gown slithering over the dusty floorboards behind her.

"You failed, Severus. You failed to protect him!"

"Ah, Narcissa, delighted to see you again, though I fear that I'm a bit underdressed for the occasion. Tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Do not patronize me, Severus! I have come from the revel. The Dark Lord has taken Draco. He has received the mark."

Snape stood very still in the silence that followed. "It was inevitable," he said finally.

Narcissa gasped, choking back tears. "Nothing is inevitable," she said. "You. You were to protect him. You have neglected your duties. _He has taken my son!_"

"I'll remind you that I have not at all been remiss in my duties. If you'll recall my oath was not to protect Draco from the one who commands him, but to aid him in his task and keep him from harm. If there is anyone who has failed to protect him, it is your husband. Lucius Malfoy has doomed your son, Madam."

Narcissa flew at him then, slapping and clawing at his face. Snape backed away from her until he felt the wall of shelves lined with books behind him. He had no choice but to confront her. He grabbed her wrists, clamped them together in one of his hands and then crushed her close, caging her against his chest to quiet her. It was a bit like trying to trap a bird against his body. He was clipped by wings and scratched by talons as Narcissa fought, but eventually she did quiet.

He wasn't sure how long it took for her to calm, but it was long enough to know that he did not like having her so close. He did not like the feel of her hair as it brushed his chin, or her tears against his neck. It was undignified and downright unseemly.

"It is Lucius who has harmed your son. He did so years ago when he chose to ally himself with the Dark Lord. You know this to be true, but you wouldn't dare say it to him. _You wouldn't dare_. You say it to me because I am the easy target. I am the joke. _I am tired, Narcissa, bone tired of being the joke_."

His words had the desired effect. She stood back from him, her pale blue eyes touched with pain. He released her wrists, relieved that he no longer had the feel of her in his hands. Something else happened, however, as she stood apart from him. He felt curiously exposed. His fingers groped the shelf behind him and drew out a dusty tome which he held to his chest in front of him. It was silly, really, but something told him that there should be a barrier between them, that she should not come that close to him again. He turned his face from her.

"I have _not_ failed in my duties," he said. "If it were so, I would be dead, would I not? I would be dead due to the nature of my vow to Draco."

"Your vow is to _me,_ Severus. Is it so hard for you to serve me, to even look at me?" Narcissa stepped close to him again. She reached up to grasp his chin, twisting his face around to hers. "I am a fool," she said. "After all these years, you're still in love with a dead girl. You're still as blind."

Her hands found the book that he held between their bodies. One by one she pried his fingers free of the binding and slowly, with painstaking carefulness, she slipped the book from his hands.

Snape stared down at his empty hands, unable to fully comprehend what was happening. Narcissa set the book aside. Her fingers crept to his chin again and tilted it until his gaze met her eyes. "See me, Severus," she commanded. "_See me_."

With that Narcissa kissed him.

Snape was unable to move, his mouth a tight line, cold and resisting, but she would not relent. She had met such resistance before, touched her mouth to a man who was just as cold. In her grief she sighed against his lips and something caught in him.

He shuddered and slowly his mouth softened under hers. He returned her kiss, lost, but suddenly alive. He crushed her closer, fingers driving up into her hair, scattering pins and strands; successfully undoing in a matter of moments what it had taken a complex charm some time to create.

It was not at all what he wished. He had never wanted this again, never wanted to be close enough to feel the heat of her soft skin beneath his hands, never wanted to acknowledge the need within him that had flared at her touch. It was unfair how she had been made; that beauty was hers; that she was designed to feel this way pressed against him; that she was perfect in form and could draw forth his desire so.

He could not. He could not do this. Snape pushed her away.

"No," he said hoarsely. "It is a game to you, all of you…to…to torture me with things that can never be."

Narcissa stared at him, her color high, breath quick. "This can be, Severus."

He shook his head, broken. She stepped toward him again, but he knew that he could not allow it. With the little strength left in him he turned his back to her so that he faced the wall of books behind him. His fingers grasped the shelves to keep his hands from shaking.

Narcissa fell back, ashamed of the tears that coursed down her cheeks. She turned to leave, but not before she spoke her final words to his back.

"This could have been."

**OOO**

Uh, yeah, so I totally know that this is a Dramione fic, and I know that our heroes are totally separated right now and that instead of them making out, Snape totally made out with Narcissa (which I hadn't planned in advance by the way, it just sort of happened), but I had a few things that I needed to shake loose from the old plot tree before I could rightfully reunite them.

Rest assured that things will get back on track. Thanks for your patience and your awesome reviews.

Now to answer mayzie's questions re: chapter 6.

1. No idea why Luna is in the N.E.W.T potions class, other than the fact that I love Luna and wanted her to cameo. I think the real question, though, is what the heck is Ron doing in N.E.W.T.-level anything?

2. Harry was indeed paired with Parvati, but then Snape decided to switch partners so that everyone was paired with someone from a different house, which is how Hermione ends up with Draco, Harry with Luna and Ron gets stuck with the golem Imogene.

Until the next chapter _vaya con Dios_!


	13. The Coward's Choice

**Chapter 13: The Coward's Choice**

She stood alone in the closet, a small antechamber really, that held her gowns and the antique reflecting glass. Narcissa studied her reflection, her hair pulled loose where his fingers had driven through it. She still wore the dress. She felt curiously hollow, nothing inside, all magnificent surface.

In the quiet Lucius approached. He stopped at the threshold as he always did. The small space was her domain, filled with woman's things; rarely did he enter. His eyes met hers in the glass.

"Come, Narcissa, let me undo you," he said. She heard the expectation in his voice, the low note of desire. She didn't move.

He did enter then, the sound of his footsteps absorbed by the ancient carpet beneath her bare feet. He touched her back, the shoulder left bare by the complex construction of the gown, his fingers grazing her skin. His eyes sought the fastenings of the silken edifice, searching the delicate folds of the fabric for its vulnerabilities, its seams. He was at once stunned and oddly touched by the complexity of the garment, so feminine and yet seemingly impregnable. At last he saw them, the tiny row of buttons in their noose-like loops, which ran along the left side of the gown from the curve of her breast to her waist.

Lucius liked to undress her. A tremor curled through his fingers in anticipation. He was heady with wine and pride. He had given a strong, fine son to the Dark Lord that night, a sacrifice seventeen years in the making. The climax of a grand endeavor had come and it left him with a vague sense of loss which drove him to her in need.

In his privileged life there was always someone to do for him those things which were of little consequence. The privilege of wealth, the ease of magic lent him the luxury of avoiding the mundane, the dreary; the dull physicality of lifting, carrying, lacing and unlacing. Yet this—the unfastening of the buttons on her dress—_this_ was worth the doing. It was worth the doing with his own hands for the pleasure it would bring. For Lucius, it was a rare thing that was worth the doing with his own hands.

Narcissa stood bathed in stillness. She felt him behind her, felt his hands as he brushed her hair aside exposing her nape. She felt his breath on her skin. The thought of him touching her tonight was unbearable, and so she did it.

She tilted her head and murmured a soft incantation. The buttons which marched down the side of the dress fell free of their loops. The garment sighed as it loosened and parted. It was a small thing, but it was one thing he would not do with his own hands. She would not let him.

Lucius froze. His fingers stopped on her skin. She was rigid beneath his hands. His eyes narrowed. He grasped her arm and spun her about to face him. His touch was not gentle.

"It is a curious game you play," he said roughly. "You stand apart from me at the ceremony refusing to offer the boy, you deny me your presence at the reception, and you deprive me of my pleasure in you. If I were you I would not persist in this game of deprivation. _It is a dangerous game_."

Narcissa closed her eyes. She could not look on her husband. Suddenly, he released her.

"Nonetheless, tonight is a rare occasion and I am feeling generous. Therefore, I will grant you a boon. You have tonight, Narcissa Black, but when I wake tomorrow it will be to my _wife_."

She felt him retreat, withdraw from the room. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

Narcissa slipped free of the gown. It slithered down her legs to pool at her feet, folds lapping her calves. She sank to her knees on top of the dress and, closing her eyes once again, cursed its gaudy, frothy beauty.

**OOO**

"I am a coward," Snape said. He couldn't say how long he'd been standing there, fingers tightened on the bookshelves. She had left hours ago, returned to the manor—he was sure of it—but it wasn't until now that the words forced themselves from his throat into the empty silence of the room. There was no one to hear them.

Narcissa should not have come here. It was not a place for beautiful creatures. Spinner's End was purposefully removed from the orbit of their ilk. It lay apart in the midst of Muggle decay for a reason. It was both a sanctuary and a tomb where he lay undisturbed with his memories of a dead girl. Narcissa needn't have touched him and threatened those memories.

Slowly, Snape released his hold on the shelves. He drew a hand across his face, scrubbing it roughly. Still the truth rang loudly in his ears. _I am a coward._

Indeed, it was his own courage that had failed, not Hermione Granger's as he had once said to Dumbledore. It was the truth all along. He had first created the altered Polyjuice with its addictive qualities for himself many years ago. He'd brewed it because he had been and still was a coward.

The coward's way was to deceive. It had seemed easy enough. Use the Polyjuice to become his enemy, kill his enemy, and through deception take his enemy's wife. In those terms it was a simple strategy, abstract, removed, as if designed for a game of Wizard's Chess. It had not been so easy in the doing, however, to become James, to kill James, to take Lily in his stead.

The thought of it had terrified him and yet he'd been driven to accomplish it. It would have meant spending his entire life as James Potter, losing Severus Snape permanently. For Lily's love, it had seemed a small sacrifice. Only, he'd doubted himself. Could he truly become another over and over until the end of his days? Could he keep such a secret eternally?

Perhaps. Perhaps if he were driven to it, driven by physical need. Perhaps if he altered the Polyjuice so that his body craved the substance, craved the transformation, indeed, relied upon it for survival. He would have no choice then but to stay the course.

It was a risky proposition. No one had ever used the Polyjuice for a lifetime. Its long term effects were unknown. His studies, however, led him to believe that eventually the potion would alter his body permanently.

It was a kind of madness that drove him to it that night. It must have been. Knowing that James had been called away, he took the potion and went to her in Godric's Hollow. Lily was shocked to see her husband, expecting that he would be gone for several days, and yet here he was returned to her.

Snape looked at her through James' faulty eyes, the frames of Potter's glasses an unfamiliar weight on the bridge of his nose. Then she had simply been Lily, young, newly married and unfinished as every beautiful young woman should be. She wasn't yet a mother, not yet a victim of that powerful divided love split between her husband and her child. It was this Lily that he clung to in his memories, not the present day martyr she had become.

Death had finished Lily Potter. She'd been stopped short, her life ended at the moment of sacrifice so that she was remembered for all eternity as a model of mother love and a brave heroine who'd given her life for her son. It was a fine way to be remembered, but to those who'd loved her, the memory was cold comfort. It was stingy, speaking only to her sacrifice, not the vibrancy and warmth of the living woman.

She was warm in his arms that night, thinking that he was James. What he couldn't have seen, even with the aid of a Pensieve, is what she knew. She knew that he was troubled, more so than usual. Everyone was anxious, these were trying times, but this soft, sad trouble ran deep. It was a different side of James, whose emotions were often brash and on the surface.

He was gentle that night and new. He looked at her as if he'd learned her from a book, and when he touched her it was with a sense of wonder that the solid reality of her flesh could exceed all that he had ever learned. There was a sadness in him, and as she slept wrapped in his arms, it permeated her and her heart ached.

He knew that his courage had failed him. He could not do this to her. She clearly loved. She loved so strongly that he couldn't betray that love with deception. It would never be his love, he wouldn't have earned it, and he realized that what he hadn't earned of her, he didn't want. It was enough, that night had been enough, and the memory of it would last him his entire life as Severus Snape.

The next morning he was gone when she woke, and when she woke it was from a troubling dream. The details vanished the instant she opened her eyes, so it was with no small amount of shock that she was startled to hear herself whisper "Severus" on a soft exhalation.

She would never speak of it to James.

It had taken him weeks to free himself from the potion's addictive thrall. It hadn't been easy; his days and nights spent in a haze of fever dreams, aches and chills. It was a fitting punishment for failure.

Yet it had been his choice. He had not given Hermione Granger such a choice. He'd simply continued the experiment that he'd begun on himself all those years ago. He could let the altered Polyjuice consume her. Already she was tainted. He could condemn her to live her life as another, a choice that he, who had never even particularly liked being Severus Snape, had ultimately rejected.

It was for him to decide. It was for him to make the coward's choice.

**OOO**

The second uninvited guest that evening arrived by Floo. Not a moment's peace to be had in Spinner's End it seemed. It reminded him vaguely of a story by that third-rate Muggle author Dickens—by all accounts a squib—where a beleaguered solicitor in search of nothing but a decent night's sleep was visited by three ghosts or some such. The second visitor to Spinner's End was no ghost, however. Snape rose to his feet as Albus Dumbledore stepped from the flames of the fireplace, beating his robes free of soot and smothering an errant ember which had become embedded in his silvery beard.

"Good evening, Severus. You really ought to think about sweeping up the hearth every now and then. Finding coals in one's beard is not entirely pleasant."

"My apologies, Albus. I'm afraid the Floo here doesn't get much use. However, I should be remiss if I didn't point out that were your beard cut according to international wizarding grooming standards you wouldn't have such worries. If I'm correct it exceeds length regulations by at least ten centimeters."

Dumbledore glanced down at his beard and patted it protectively. "So it does, Severus, so it does. I am old and as such I know the value of such regulations. I find that actions, not beards, make the man. If the Ministry were as concerned with a wizard's intentions as it is with his facial hair, the world would be a very different place. Take our adversary the Lord Voldemort for instance: utterly hairless and entirely evil."

The corner of Snape's mouth lifted of its own accord. For anyone else the reaction would have counted as the ghost of a smile. For the former Potions Master, however, it was merely a learned response, the quirk of a gesture which had long ago lost meaning.

It was just as well. Despite the elder wizard's elegant chatter, Snape knew that this was hardly a social visit. It was only a matter of time before the second uninvited guest got down to brass tacks.

"Where is she?" Dumbledore asked.

"Below stairs," Snape replied. "You may look in on her if you wish."

"What is it I should expect to see?"

"She is resting at the moment. I gave her a sleeping draught to allay some of the symptoms."

"Symptoms?"

"Withdrawal symptoms. In her waking hours she is feverish. She speaks incoherently. It is the thrall of the potion."

Dumbledore said nothing. He crossed the room to the staircase, pausing only for the steps to gather themselves and unfurl beneath his feet, creating a path for his descent.

It was a quarter of an hour before he returned; his eyes hard, glittering.

"She is weak, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly. "You have broken her."

"I have done nothing that was not asked of me."

Silence ensued. Carefully, Dumbledore spoke. "That is not what I asked."

"Isn't it?" Snape replied. "It was your plan to create another Imogene when the first was lost to us. That is who Miss Granger will become permanently. It is as my studies lead me to believe. I have only to continue her dosage and let the process run its course."

Dumbledore paled. "Then I have failed to make my intention clear. It was never to create another Imogene as you say. Indeed, the qualities of Miss Granger are what make all the difference. Imogene is merely the mask which allowed Miss Granger entrance into young Mr. Malfoy's life." Here Dumbledore paused. "I'll remind you that masks are made to be removed. They are not permanent fixtures. For us to truly succeed, the mask must be removed."

Snape's eyes narrowed in quiet fury. "But there is the prophecy."

"Yes, there is the prophecy, but you know as well as I do that prophecies are complex. This one in particular is not so easily thwarted. It would be foolish to trick the prophecy by simply supplying an Imogene; more foolish still to trick the heart."

"No, Albus, enough. Enough of your equivocations and machinations. It is all ludicrous. It is absurd." Snape laughed then, a harsh, hoarse barking sound completely devoid of humor. "I have done what you asked always. _All_ that you ask, even those things which remain unspoken, especially those things which you haven't the stomach to do yourself." Another harsh sound escaped him, strangled laughter or an exhausted howl; it was difficult to discern which. "I do your dirty work, Albus. We do it… the boy and I." The boy, with his mother's startling green eyes and Snape's own unruly black hair. "It seems that we have something in common, Potter and I. We are your tools, sir. We are your _mules_."

Dumbledore appeared to weaken under the weight of Snape's words. His shoulders bowed in strain. After what seemed like an eternity, he made his reply.

"It is true, I have used you thus."

Then the elder wizard did something unexpected. He gathered himself, his voluminous robes, and asked of his body that which age made it difficult to grant. He knelt, lowering himself to the floor. It was not a smooth motion. He did not command his bones with the same fluid ease with which he commanded magic. He labored to his knees and felt the floor rise up sharply against weathered bone.

Dumbledore bowed his head. "I am… flawed," he said. "But do not emulate my mistakes, Severus. Do not embrace my flaws. Do not use Miss Granger thus."

Snape closed his eyes, the reality of the scene before him overwhelming. The Headmaster was pleading with him. It was done with quiet dignity, and the dignity, though proud in nature, did not disguise the humility of the request.

When Snape opened his eyes Dumbledore had risen to his feet. There was nothing more to be said. The elder wizard tossed a handful of powder into the hearth and disappeared into the flames.

**OOO**

"I dunno how you do it, Harry." Ron scowled across the Great Hall at the Slytherin table. "If I were you, I'd hex him into next week."

Harry grunted, shoveling a forkful of treacle tart into his mouth.

"I mean, really! He put you in the Hospital Wing. Let's pound him." Ron fixed his narrowed gaze on Draco Malfoy who sat silently between Crabbe and Goyle. "We could make it look like an unfortunate Quidditch accident or something. Or maybe let a Blast-Ended Skrewt wander into his path. Feed him to the Whomping Willow or—"

"—Ron! Believe me, I've thought about it more than once, but something's not right. Something's been done to Malfoy. Look at him. Something's going on."

Malfoy was certainly present at the Slytherin table, but he seemed to be the only one who didn't know it. His eyes were vague and unfocused. He lacked a sense of being. In an odd way it seemed that he had wound down; Draco Malfoy at full stop.

"Hermione would know," Ron muttered, dejected. He threw his fork down. It clattered onto his empty plate. "I can't believe she's visiting her parents in hiding."

Harry stabbed the treacle tart again and plied his mouth with another forkful, ruminating as he masticated. "Neither can I," he said, his eyes hard.

"What do you mean?" Ron asked.

"It's not like her just to disappear without saying anything to us. Why the secrecy? I mean, she didn't mention it at all. It was like she didn't even know about it."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, "and it's Hermione we're talking about. She knows about everything."

"Exactly. There's no way she wouldn't have told us. Something's going on, Ron." Harry put down his fork. After a moment he said, "Malfoy was looking for her."

"What?"

"When we fought in the hall. He was looking for her."

"I'll kill him!" Ron said. He jumped to his feet, nearly stumbling over the bench in the process. Several students turned to stare.

"Sit down, Ron." Harry tugged the redhead back into his seat, hoping to quell his hothead temper. "Malfoy was missing for a couple of days, too, and he's not the same since he's been back. He's been up to something all year. Maybe Hermione knew what it was. Maybe she's connected."

Ron balled his hands into fists. "Connected to Malfoy? You mean, like in eternal loathing or something?"

"I don't know what I mean, Ron," Harry said quietly. "I just have this feeling."

It was not a feeling he could ignore.

**OOO**

He hadn't wanted to handle the girl but he had, and she would require more handling before it was done. Snape sat on the edge of the cot with Hermione. He'd caught her around the middle as she lurched forward, torso folded over his arm. She retched over the side of the cot into a waiting ewer. Her fingers were fisted in his shirt, balled tightly around the fabric, insistent in their demand for support as her stomach fought another spasm, forcing its contents upward into her throat.

He knew to expect the nausea and vomiting but she did not. He had been able to prepare, stripping the linens to prevent their being soiled and placing the ewer close at hand. He had considered cutting off her hair while she slept. It was foolish to keep so much of it. It was weighty, unwieldy and doomed to be fouled by vomit, but he hadn't moved quickly enough before her eyes sprang open and caught sight of the shears. Now he clutched her hair in one hand, holding it clear of her face. She heaved once, then again, before she drew herself up and slumped against him, exhausted.

Snape stiffened at the contact. Awkwardly, he tried to disengage from her, releasing her hair and angling his body away from her, but she tightened her grip on his shirt, confronting him with her weak and wretched body, keeping him fixed to her.

"You did this," Hermione said, her voice raspy as it crept gingerly through her damaged throat. Even though the sound was barely above a whisper, Snape could detect the accusation in her tone. She was clearheaded for what seemed like the first time in days. The sound of her voice chastened him more than he would've liked to admit. "What… what have you… done to me?"

Though her nearness was nearly intolerable, Snape thought that he might prefer it to seeing the bitter accusation which he knew had taken up residence in her eyes.

"The potion, you require it," he answered bluntly. "Without it you fall ill."

Hermione eased her hold on his shirt, only to tighten her fingers again, this time her nails digging into the skin beneath.

"This illness… it's because you… won't give me the Polyjuice." It didn't make sense. Vaguely she knew that she craved the potion, but she didn't know why. Hermione was having trouble even formulating ideas. Words weren't coming to her as quickly as they usually did. Thought felt sluggish, torpid. Anger was present, and outrage too, but her exhaustion made it impossible to fuel them.

"Essentially, yes." Snape did not elaborate.

"Then why… why do you… make me suffer?"

"It is a choice. I have altered the Polyjuice. If I continue your dosage the illness will abate, but eventually you would become her. You would become Imogene permanently."

Hermione gathered her strength and slowly pushed herself free of him. Her head reeled and she leaned back on her palms, her arms shaking with the strain of supporting her weight. She needed to look at him, as if it might help her to understand.

"You murdered one girl, and to replace her you would sacrifice another," she said slowly.

Snape met her eyes.

"I would. Dumbledore would, though he would never admit it."

"Then why haven't you?" she asked bitterly, her words cutting, cruel.

Snape didn't answer.

"Or have you already?" Hermione said slowly. "The golem… is that it? It wants to destroy me so that Imogene can take my place." It had never occurred to her that, in trying to eliminate her, the golem might be doing as it had been bid.

"The potion works on its own to enact the transformation. It does not require the golem's assistance," Snape said wearily. "As for the golem, I will remind you that it has no sentience. It is not a creature of agency. It cannot do as you suggest."

"But is has," Hermione argued. "It's tried to kill me. That isn't part of your plan?"

"_I am not a murderer, Miss Granger."_

"Aren't you?"

"Stop!" Snape commanded. "Stop this. Stop your lies."

"Which is the lie? That the golem wants me dead or that you do?"

Snape rose from the cot and stalked across the room. A tense silence settled between them.

"There is a way." Hermione spoke at last. "There is a way to know if I am lying… about the golem."

"I do not need Veritaserum to know the falsity of your words."

"That isn't what I'm suggesting." She looked up at him, met his gaze. "The truth is here." Hermione raised an unsteady hand to her forehead. "I'll let you," she said, "willingly."

Snape stared at her, startled that she would willingly allow him entrance into her mind in service of the truth. He didn't need her permission for such a thing and yet she had granted it, even suggested it. How very Gryffindor of her. How very noble and courageous.

He drew his wand and advanced on her.

**OOO**

Her mind was cluttered, dark, confused. The landscape had changed since the last time he'd entered only months ago. Memories lay fragmented, splintered in his path. They were oddly incomplete, scattered, altered. This was not the work of the potion or lack thereof.

The potion was a delicate and refined thing designed to transform her outward appearance. It should not, could not warp her memories. There was something else at work, another force, another presence.

Snape paused in the hall of her memories. An eerie quiet seemed to have settled in her mind, the calm before the storm, he thought, for lack of a better analogy. It lasted for the briefest of moments. Then it began. The doors which had been open to him slammed shut one by one along the hall. It made no sense. She had agreed not to fight him. She had willingly granted him access.

The hall twisted, lurched beneath him, throwing him off balance. As he struggled to regain his footing so to speak, he was thrown against a wall where he smashed through the door of a memory.

"_Come along now, Imma," the man says. She is small. He extends a hand to her and she reaches to take it. Her short, chubby fingers settle neatly in his large palm. They walk through a shaded wood, dotted with peculiar stones which rise from the ground. He is a tall man and her child's legs struggle to keep up. The ground is leafy and uneven beneath her feet. They move between the stones, careful of them. It is important that they are careful. _

_ At last, the man stops. He is dark to her, not in mood or coloring, but dark in that he lacks a certain light. It even clouds his features—this absence of light. They are indistinct in her child's mind. He sits and draws her down to sit beside him in the shadow of a pale stone. The stone takes shape, rising sharply into focus from time-eroded memory. Its edges are smooth, crafted. It is hewn in remembrance; white marble. There is writing on the stone. She can hardly read it, can barely make it out, but now she knows. It is a grave marker, and the words are names. _

_And the name is LeCoeur. _

Snape watched them both from within the memory. Somehow he'd taken up residence in it, almost as if he were viewing in a Pensieve.But this was not a Pensieve. It shouldn't have been possible. It shouldn't have been possible that the man turned to look at Snape, knowing that he was there.

It was then that Snape saw it. The man was himself. It was _he_ who had showed the girl her own grave.

Snape's mind seized. A barrier had been crossed, broken. This was not a memory, but a cleverly crafted fiction, a fiction with a purpose. Pain seared through his own thoughts and then a voice struck him.

_It is mine_, the voice said. _It is mine now. It has used I and I will use it. It is mine now. It is mine. It is I._

**OOO**

Snape was on his knees beside the cot, gasping for air. Sweat ran down his face to dampen his collar. His eyes were squeezed shut, the pain in his mind intense. His hands shook. He fought to slow his breath, regain control of his lungs.

After a moment he opened his eyes, and that's when he saw her, the girl who for all intents and purposes was Hermione Granger. She lay in a troubled sleep, seemingly unchanged save the color of her hair—still ridiculous, unwieldy, superfluous in its expanse—which was now an inky black.

It was the early stages of a transformation which should not have occurred without the Polyjuice and yet it had.

Snape sank down to the floor. As impossible as it was to grasp, he had come to the limit. He could no longer do this alone. There was only one other who knew this girl who was and wasn't Hermione.

Snape would need his help.

**OOO**

The boy seemed tired. His pale head dipped forward. He sat hunched over in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees. In the quiet of Snape's office at Hogwarts silence hung between them. It glinted off of the many jars and vials which stocked the shelves, resounding in a kind of hushed white nose that fell upon Draco's ears.

"You haven't told me why you want me to come with you to Spinner's End," he said at last.

"I'm afraid I cannot go into detail here," Snape answered.

"Something to do with my task perhaps?"

"As I said, I cannot elaborate at this time."

Draco shrugged listlessly. "I suppose it doesn't matter, does it? As my professor, as my… mentor, you may will me to do whatever you wish." A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

Snape rose from the chair behind his desk. He crossed to Draco where he sat, grabbed his arm and tugged up the boy's sleeve. "We meet as equals," he said, indicating the mark.

"Of course," Draco hissed, dragging his arm from Snape's grasp. "I am what my father made me. I am the Dark Lord's creature."

The former Potions Master fell back a step. He pulled up his own sleeve revealing the mark on the underside of his left forearm. "This is not fate in the way that you might think, Draco. This is… opportunity."

Snape let his sleeve drop and folded his arms across his chest. "It is a choice. And it is yours."

**OOO**

Draco had not been to Spinner's End in some time, not since he was a young boy on a visit with his mother long ago. It was small and shabby as he remembered. He followed Snape down the enchanted staircase to a second room. It was dark, warm, the air close from the heat of a fire banked in the hearth. The room smelled of herbs and medicinal things. It was a sickroom, he realized.

There was a cot in the corner. On it laid a sleeping girl, covered by bed linens, twisted in them, facing away from him. All that was visible was a spill of inky black hair. Draco's breath caught. He knew this girl. He turned to Snape who hung back by the entrance to the room. Snape merely inclined his head, his expression unreadable.

Draco stood rooted to the spot. Imogene. He hadn't seen her since he'd received the mark. Upon his return to Hogwarts, he'd been told that she was once again visiting her parents. It had stung to think that she had left again when she said that she wouldn't. Yet, he hadn't been sure that he wanted to face her—not as he was now, marked and owned.

He took a step toward her and stopped. Would she know him with the mark? Would she know how it had changed him, how it had made him someone else? Draco pushed those thoughts aside and willed his feet to move, one foot in front of the other until he reached her.

He sat down on the edge of the cot and pulled the twisted linens away. There was something wrong. Her features were different. Her hair not as he remembered. Draco turned the girl's face toward him. His hands shook. His ears grew hot.

_This girl._ Her features took shape in his mind, assembled themselves in a familiar pattern, one that led to recognition. This girl, who was and wasn't Imogene; this girl who was, but couldn't be, Hermione Granger.

Draco sprang up from the cot, stumbling back into the center of the room. He turned his eyes to Snape, questioningly, accusingly. Snape said nothing, but the answer was plain in his face. Hands shaking, Draco pushed past him, headed toward the stairs.

Snape watched in silence as the boy fled.

**OOO**

Severus Snape was exhausted. He'd looked high and low for the boy, all of his possible haunts, everywhere except the manor. He knew that Draco wouldn't return to his home. The boy wasn't anxious to see Lucius again since the ceremony, he knew that much. It was just as well. Snape had no desire to set foot in the manor either, though it had less to do with Lucius than with Narcissa. She had made things difficult for him. She had unearthed that which should have remained buried.

He unclasped his cloak and dropped it in the middle of the floor. It was uncharacteristic of him. He didn't care much about garments, but he knew better than to leave them lying in the floor. He couldn't abide such thoughtlessness, but tonight he would make an exception. Tonight he was bone-weary and the cloak could lie where it had fallen. He would start again tomorrow, continue his search.

There was only one thing left to do before he closed his eyes tonight. Snape paused at the stairs, let them shift to accommodate him. He would check on the girl once more before he retired. He descended the stairs, but stopped at the threshold of the room.

There on the cot lay the object of his search. Hours spent looking for the boy and Snape hadn't thought to return to the start. Draco lay curled around the girl, his eyes closed, his breathing even.

The boy had come back of his own accord. He had come back to the beginning.

**OOO**

When she opened her eyes he lay across from her, close enough to touch. There was no tension in his face, the space between his thin blond brows smooth, unwrinkled as he slept. How he had come to be there she could only guess, but he was there. She touched the side of his jaw, followed the line of it to his chin; stroked his chin, then his lips with the backs of her fingers.

Draco woke. His eyes drew her into focus. He stared.

Suddenly it occurred to her: she had no idea who he was staring at, no idea which girl she was. She was afraid to speak, not knowing whose voice would emerge from her throat, Hermione's or Imogene's.

Draco blinked, a decision made. He pushed himself back from her, pushed himself up to sitting. It was a reaction to Hermione, she guessed. Slowly, she pulled a strand of her hair in front of her eyes. It was certainly the texture and curl of Hermione's hair but it was the color of Imogene's.

_Who am I?_ She wanted to ask him, frustrated, but she realized that he couldn't tell her. He didn't have the answer. She did.

She moved her fingers to her own face, searching, fighting the uneasy feeling that she was something in between, in between the two girls, in between Hermione and Imogene; a strange amalgam, neither one nor the other. A sense of panic seized her.

Draco sensed it. It struck his own fears. He shifted, tossing the sheets aside. He was angry, he remembered, angry at her whoever she was, angry at the brutal evidence of her deception.

She saw it then, now that the sheets had been cast aside. She saw the mark on his arm. He followed her gaze, saw where it had fallen. It quieted him. He drew his arm up to his chest, concealing the Dark Lord's seal. She didn't know him, not this boy who had been marked, altered.

Neither of them knew where to start, how to begin. They were strangers. There was a newness between them. They were new to each other.


	14. Monsters in Common

**Chapter 14: Monsters in Common**

Clearly introductions were in order, though she wasn't sure where either one of them would begin. It seemed unlikely at that very moment that he would turn to her, extend a hand, perhaps sketch a polite bow and utter, "Hello, I'm Draco Malfoy and I'm a Death Eater." Even more unlikely was her uncertain reply, "Pleased to meet you. As far as I know I'm Hermione Granger."

"Charmed."

"Likewise."

It was absolutely preposterous, this imagined conversation, but it was all she could envision in light of the fact that there was no protocol for an occasion such as this. They had come to the one moment that exceeded rules of etiquette—or engagement for that matter. She barely understood why it was so important to have these rules, these social strictures to bind them, until now when they were forced to confront the unfamiliar with nothing to mitigate their fears.

She looked at him, arm drawn up to his chest in an attempt to conceal what she'd already seen. It was no use. His shirt lay twisted in the sheets and with his arms and torso bare there was no concealing anything. The edges of the mark were still visible along the seam where the flesh at the inside of his forearm met his chest. He was tense, coiled as if ready to spring. Skittish, she thought, as if sudden movement would drive him to strike.

He did strike then, his right hand snaking out to grasp her wrist. Draco's fingers were tight and cruel. His grip was intended to ensure that she remain still rather than draw her closer. With his left hand, he grasped several strands of her hair between his fingers. The mark was revealed to her then, but he no longer cared. His entire body was the mark; it read in the slope of his shoulders, in the corded sinew of his arms, in the very cast of his bones. Surely she saw that. It had been ridiculous of him to think that he could cradle his arm to his chest and deny its existence.

He tugged at the inky, black hair between his fingers and then suddenly released it, released her as quickly as he'd grasped her to begin with. His shoulders shook in what would have been an expression of mirth, but the laugh which escaped his lips was hollow, bitter. When he finally spoke, his voice had a hoarse, bruised quality, as if the effort to speak were taking its toll.

"Fool," he uttered. "Fool. Charms and potions… disguise… and I am a fool." It saddened him. It angered him. It was absurd that this should be the truth of it. "They painted your hair, told you what to be so that I would… what? Tell you things? Like you? _Fuck you_?"

Hermione couldn't let him say this, but neither could she stop him. Her throat was tight; fear, guilt and anxiety a clot that barely allowed air to escape the narrow passage.

"And for you it was what?" he asked. "A chance to help them? A chance to protect _Potter_?"

Hermione closed her eyes, shutting them over the wetness that had begun to collect at the corners of her lids. She shook her head, denying it, not the truth of it, but the way he'd made it sound. It sounded callous, manipulative. It failed to take into account the way she felt even now, wanting him despite the blackened skin inked upon his arm.

"Granger," he said, with that laugh that wasn't a laugh. "Granger." It all made sense: the haughtiness, the books; that she had found him barely conscious in the hall, that he had sworn it was she who had left his bed that morning days ago.

A mudblood.

And yet he had come back to her. Even after seeing it with his own eyes, he had come back to this room to find her, to lie down beside her because he knew nothing else; he had nothing else; he wanted nothing else.

And he hated her for it. And he hated himself.

She didn't have the words. She knew that there was nothing she could say. If she spoke even this tenuous thread that kept him anchored here in anger, in self-loathing, would snap and she would lose him. It was perhaps what led her to instinct. She reached out, her fingers clasping his arm, tracing the lines of the mark.

Draco flinched, his jaw tightening, knowing that he should be sickened by her touch, but instead it was the opposite and he could not move with her small fingers on him.

Once it had been the absence of this mark which had won her; that pale stretch of nothingness on the underside of his arm. That absence had gained her trust. The presence of the mark should have destroyed that trust, but it was not as she thought it would be. When she touched the mark, she felt his shame. She felt the tension in him beneath her fingers. He placed his hand over hers, crushing her fingers against the mark, willing her to strip him of it, to peel it from his flesh.

She couldn't take it from him, and even if she'd known how, she wouldn't have done it, for its presence spoke to her, whoever she was; she, neither one girl nor the other, whose thoughts were sometimes strange, who knew herself to be Hermione Granger but was increasingly met with doubts. She would not have done it because, much like her own doubt, it equalized them, it bound them; it made them monsters in common.

**OOO  
**

The territory was familiar, the setting known, but the dull panic that seemed to live with him these days precluded a feeling of habit. Harry sat in Dumbledore's office once again. He loved coming here and at the same time he hated it. It was here that truths were revealed to him, that crucial information was imparted. Yet, those same truths often served to complicate his understanding of the world around him, to challenge what he thought he knew. It was here that he lost conviction more often than he gained certainty. It was here more than anywhere else that he felt unmoored.

Dumbledore stood quietly by the hearth, seeming to sense the delicate balance of the young wizard's thoughts, and so he made up his mind to tread lightly on the faulty ground of Harry's faith.

"Did you ever think, Harry, that there would come a time when you and I would address each other as equals? When you would call me Albus and we might talk as men, though I would still be the elder and older, even though it hardly seems possible, than I am now?"

Harry blinked. "I hadn't thought of it, sir." There was something about Dumbledore's question that had caused him to add the formal form of address. The question itself broached uncharted territory and it prompted him, in defense, to reinforce the established relationship between the two of them with his words.

Dumbledore smiled faintly and shook his head, denying the need for the verbal stratification. "Had you never thought of your future, Harry?"

Harry stared at the older wizard, something like anger welling at the corners of his eyes. It faded quickly, however, to a dull blankness. "I can't really see around it. Around _him_. Voldemort. That's as far as I see. After that…" He shrugged.

Dumbledore paled. The boy could not know. He could not know that the second prophecy had called him a sacrifice. It marked him as one without future. Yet it was impossible to live this way. Even if the future was denied there must be, at the very least, the expectation of it. Everyone, no matter how small, mean, cruel, deserved the expectation of a future, the expectation of a life yet to live. When that was taken there was nothing left.

"I have tried to do right by you, Harry and perhaps my methods were… _are_ questionable, but if I thought that I, that he… that _we_ have robbed you of your expectation of future, then we have already lost."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, tamping down a sense of rage that seemed to wend its way up through his body from the base of his spine. He wanted to ask how, how to see past Voldemort, how to expect a future on the other side of the Dark Lord. Instead, he leaned forward in his chair, restless, resting his elbows on his knees.

Dumbledore stilled. He thought once again of past, present and future, of prophesy and lore, of how the present is the future of a past and also the past of a future. All three conflated, all three existing simultaneously.

There was a way.

Dumbledore's breath caught and mingled in his lungs with a long-forgotten sensation. It mingled with hope. Slowly, the elder wizard drew away from the hearth. He stopped in front of the boy's chair and extended a hand to him.

"It is _now_, Harry. It is _now_, this very _present_."

Harry sat back in his chair, his restless anger mitigated by the peculiarity of Dumbledore's words. "I'm not sure I understand, sir."

Dumbledore clasped hands with him.

"Albus. You must call me, Albus. And I shall call you friend."

**OOO  
**

When the boy emerged his hair was damp, his shirt loose. _Youth_, Snape thought, and tucked the unbidden thought away with several others: that his hair was the color of his mother's; that she was somehow present in this boy, who, with his carelessness in the face of time exemplified youth.

Draco did not sit, but stood in front of the enchanted staircase facing him, wary still, wary always.

Snape caught the look in the boy's eye and knew that it would be difficult. Draco had, as youth had allotted him, a certain vigor, a certain urge to fight. It exhausted Snape before he had even begun, but he knew he would press on anyway, Sisyphean in the attempt.

"Master Malfoy," Snape said, a bit wryly, anticipating the antagonism to come.

"Is that really the first thing you want to do, patronize me?" Draco asked. "Really the first thing you want to say to me?"

Snape sighed. "I thought to offer you the floor."

"An offer from you? By now I should know to refuse it."

Snape inclined his head, ceding a point. Then he sat and stared at the boy in stony silence. He would wait. If there was one thing youth did not have it was patience. Snape had it in spades.

A vein ticked in Draco's temple, pulsing as moments slipped by. Finally, he spoke.

"I have only been thinking that I know why it is you were Potions Master, why in some ways you still are."

Snape continued to stare, offering nothing.

"It's a precise science, isn't it? I mean, Potions really is the _science_ of magic, more so than spellwork, than anything else. It's got ingredients, to be measured, mixed, combined. And then you wait. You wait and you watch. You get what you expect, what your measurements—your precision has told you to expect."

Draco moved then. He crossed the room. He stood in front of Snape, close, close enough so that the former Potions Master heard him easily despite the fact that he hissed at a whisper, _"Did you get what you expected?"_

Snape made no reply. He would let the boy spend his anger. He imagined that Draco had turned his anger to the girl as well, but as had been the case in the past Snape was the easy target. He always had been.

"Me. Her. _Ingredients._ Color her hair. Change her face. Put us together. Wait. _Wait and watch._" Draco's face was close. "You did watch, didn't you? Last night. _You watched_."

"Don't be vulgar," Snape snapped. The boy had crossed into his space in a way that made him uncomfortable, reminding him of Narcissa, threatening him. He pushed Draco back, watched him stumble and recover, watched him think about rushing forward again; fists clenched, hate in his eyes. Draco held still, however.

"I am many things. I am nothing. But I am _not_ vulgar." It was enough. The statement was enough to exhaust Draco, to grind the vigor of his youth to a stunned halt. Snape's patience had paid off, though it could not have prepared him for what came next.

Draco lowered his head as if it had become heavy on his shoulders. "I have… for her… what I have for her is…not for you to watch… not for you to create… not for you to know. You can't. _You can't_."

For Snape it was a lesson he should have learned. He thought that he had learned it years ago in Lily Potter's arms. Yet it had taken this boy, this inexperienced youth, to tutor him, to find the lesson and flaunt it in front of his very eyes. _It is not for you to create._

"I won't," Snape said at last. The words seemed to come of their own accord. The promise had been made even before the sound of his voice had died away. "But I must ask you—it is the only way—was she, Imogene, _Miss Granger_, was there anything at all unusual? Any other manifestation?"

Draco shook his head no, but partway through the motion he stopped, his chin raised, head tilted slightly, snagged in memory. He was almost reluctant to allow the memory to surface, knowing how it would color him, how it would take hold of his thoughts and lead him back to last night and to her.

She drew him back. Whether through memory or desire, she drew him. He had seen her and fled. Left Spinner's End for good, he'd thought. For good, if such a thing truly existed. Hours later he'd returned as surely as his thoughts returned to her now; Imogene, Granger, _Hermione_.

He was there again, fingers pleading with hers, pressing her fingers against the mark. _Take it_, he thought. _Undo it. Unmake it. Violence. It would require violence._

Only she wasn't acquainted with violence, not like he was. It wasn't that she'd never known it. It wasn't that she was unscathed. It was that she was unpracticed in it, truly unpracticed in a way that he, a Malfoy and a Death Eater, could never be.

Her lips met his shoulder. He remained sitting there, rigid, his fingers crushing hers against his forearm while her mouth touched him in gentle supplication. He was not gentle, nor did he want her to gentle him, but if she continued this way there was a chance she might transmute his anger, leaving him lost, rudderless beneath her fingers.

And ashamed. Ashamed of his marked body that was both a disappointment and a failure, owned as it was. He no longer wanted to inhabit it, not when it wasn't his own. But she forced him to with her mouth, with her fingers. She forced him to be wholly in it, to give in to its urge, its facile ability to interpret the tactile and respond to it bluntly, elegantly.

He cursed her for it.

He touched her with shaking hands and damned her silently for leaving him so exposed, so at the mercy of this worthless shell of skin and bone, of tissue, hide and hair that had heretofore served merely to contain him, but now formed the boundary which separated him from her; and she, flush against him, skin feverish to the touch, coaxing him to rebel against the shame, the disappointment.

They met, then, for the second time at the limits of the body, fitted one to the other; a careful introduction driven by need.

And when Draco thought on it, returning to last night, head canted slightly to the left, he heard Snape's question again: _anything unusual?_ He stopped shaking his head, realizing that he should have been nodding all along.

Yes, everything unusual, everything extraordinary, down to the last sigh, down to the last of her whispered words: _mine_.

**OOO**

She was hiding in her own home. Narcissa stood, arms folded across her stomach, head bowed in a tiny alcove off the main hall. It was the kind of niche that ordinarily held statuary, but today it held a lone woman who, as it turns out, was not made of stone after all.

She took several deep breaths and placed a hand against the wall to steady herself. Some called Malfoy Manor the finest wizarding estate of its kind; others, an ostentatious display of wealth; but there was something about the presence of the Dark Lord within its walls that made it seem a garish prison, designed to suffocate its inhabitants under the weight of its eaves and its tightly sealed corridors.

Regardless, the manor was a solid structure and the cool stone wall beneath her fingers unyielding. It was what she needed, the firm resistance beneath her palm, the foundation against which to brace herself. She was crumbling, the brittle façade of elegant wife and chatelaine peeling away in sheets, threatening to leave her exposed.

Narcissa knew what was expected of her. She knew that there were standards for her behavior, but she also knew that, try as she might, she could no longer meet them.

"There you are, Wife."

She jumped at the sound of Lucius's voice.

"I have been looking all over for you."

He tucked a hand behind her elbow and drew her out of the alcove. "Startled? By me?" he asked. "Why ever should I startle you, Narcissa? Who else would possibly happen upon you and call you wife?" There was quiet menace in his words, couched though it was in singular politesse.

She forced a smile, using the act to buy time. It was her own bit of charm, more feminine than magical in nature, though just as effective as any spell. Her features softened, lashes sank. She tilted her head slightly, exposing the delicate contour of her cheek, the smooth skin beneath the light filtering in through the leaded glass windows of the hall. A bit of hair slipped free of the clasp at her nape and fell forward to brush her cheek. All in all it was quite artful, better than she could have hoped, having assembled the last shreds of the façade and stretched them thin, so thin, as thin as they would allow in the name of guile.

All the while she was thinking, trying to find a way to do what was expected, trying to remember Lucius and her affection for him before he had sacrificed her son, trying to recall how it was that she had moved him in the past from simmering anger to, at the very least, distracted resignation.

Lucius studied her; cool, grey eyes momentarily alight with quiet fascination as they swept her face. He reached out, touched the loose strands of hair at her cheek and smoothed them back behind her ear, before quickly dropping his hand.

He was uncertain, she realized, shocked by his own gesture. She hadn't seen that kind of uncertainty in him since he was a boy; the boy who, for all his fine, pureblood breeding and unparalleled arrogance, had courted her with nervous hands and trembling fingers.

Narcissa pressed her advantage. She touched his face, her hand settled along the line of his jaw. Lucius's breath stilled. He placed his hand over hers and let it rest there a moment before his fingers closed around hers, crushing them as he jerked them from his face.

"Clever woman," he said. "I hadn't thought about it much when I met you. I hadn't thought that you would be clever. I was… distracted by other things. Yet here you are after all these years, still beautiful and, it seems, wretchedly clever."

Lucius maintained his tight grip on her fingers and used it to pull her along behind him as he began walking. "Have you heard from the boy?"

"No." Narcissa managed to find her voice at last. "He's gone back up to Hogwarts. You know we don't hear much from him during the term. His studies—"

"—Don't, Narcissa. Do not thwart me with the guise of your banal housewifery—not with the Dark Lord in residence, not when you have just proven yourself to be so damnably clever."

Narcissa stumbled behind him, hard-pressed to meet his furious pace with her feet trapped as they were within the confines of her expensive dragon hide heels.

"As you know the boy has been given a task. It is our duty to monitor him. You are certain you have received no communication from our son?"

"Yes, I'm certain. I haven't heard from him. I would know when I've spoken to Draco."

The door to Lucius's study rose up in front of them. He threw it open, dragged Narcissa inside and slammed it shut behind them.

"Then that is unfortunate," Lucius said, dropping his voice to a whisper. "The Dark Lord believes that Draco's silence indicates the need for motivation, a certain incentive to see the task through."

"What kind of incentive?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"You know how He achieves his ends. He has threatened those nearest to Draco. There is the girl, Imogene, but as the depth of his attachment to her is still unclear, He has also threatened the boy's… mother. You, Narcissa, my wife."

A sense of panic fell heavily on her. She sank into a chair, arms folded across her stomach once again.

"I would not… lose you to the boy's lack of motivation, whatever your faults," Lucius said, his voice unexpectedly gentle given the coldness in his eyes. They were a cold-eyed family it seemed; wintry grey irises which froze others in their gaze, keeping them trapped and suspended at an icy distance. "So I will ask you _again_," Lucius uttered slowly, "have you heard from the boy?"

It was a moment before Narcissa caught his meaning.

"Yes," she lied, surprised to feel the soft tread of hot tears on her face as they sprang from the corners of her cold, cold eyes.

**OOO  
**

Ginny Weasley was warm. Harry tried to get his head around the reality of it. He had always suspected that she would be, but he had doubted perhaps that the opportunity would arise in which he could confirm his suspicions. He never thought he'd have the chance. There were times when he thought it would have been Hermione in his arms, and then there were other times when he knew that that would have been preposterous. She would never have stopped talking long enough to kiss him. She would never have stopped thinking long enough.

Ginny was close. He tucked his fingers behind her knees, drawing them up around his hips, drawing her closer, tighter against him. He'd somehow imagined that having her there on his lap would make it easier for him to behave, easier than having all of that softness crushed beneath him, but he was wrong. This simply brought new pressure to bear in ways he'd least expected, pressure that drove him just as close to the edge of his control.

He thought of Molly disapproving; Molly, who wasn't his mother, but who had mothered him certainly. She would want him to respect Ginny. He was older than she; he bore the brunt of the responsibility. He wanted to be mature. He wanted to respect Ginny, but she was making it really difficult.

He hadn't known how all of the little things would affect him. Her small sighs as he discovered a new way to move his fingers against her skin. Her warmth, the way her waist flared into her hips. None of it inspired him to maturity. What it did was drive him to shift her weight, to draw her knees up closer so that she sat right where he needed her to, exquisite torture against his hardness.

And for a moment, the briefest of moments, he was just a teenaged boy, any unthinking teenaged boy, with a girl in his arms, doing what he knew he shouldn't. He was heady with it, nearly giddy, until the moment ended with the sound of his name on her lips. _Harry_. It called him to himself. _Harry. Harry Potter._

He had no right to this. From the very beginning, from the day he'd earned his scar, he'd had no right to take a girl in his arms, to feel for her and make promises to her—not wearing his dreadful purpose as he did, marked on his forehead. It outweighed everything else, even these heated thoughts and instincts, even these tender feelings, rough and unfinished as they were.

His hands stilled. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, let it rasp against the thin material of her uniform shirt.

"I have no right," he said, his words uneven as they bounced along the breath which seesawed through his lungs.

Ginny listened, hearing the things he hadn't said.

"No, you really don't," she answered.

He squeezed his eyes shut then, thinking already of the absence of warmth when she pulled away from him, of buttoning his shirt and his pants with unsteady fingers, of searching for his glasses. She was close enough that he hadn't needed them to see her features. The only reason he couldn't see her now had nothing to do with failed eyesight however, and everything to do with the fact that he couldn't lift his face from her shoulder. He wouldn't. He wouldn't let her see the sorrow in his eyes.

"You've no earthly right, Harry, unless you take it."

He did lift his face then. He stared at her. Ginny met his eyes easily and held his gaze even as she took his fingers, pushed them gently beneath her skirt and led him to the center of her feeling. She brushed his fingers against the taut skin there and only then did her eyes slip closed. Her forehead met his and he caught the warmth of her breath against his lips as she sighed.

Harry felt her softness, the liquid heat of her on the tips of his fingers. For him. For him to take. _Mystery_, he thought.

She was a mystery beneath his fingers and he would claim the right.

**OOO  
**

It was wily, her memory. She would even go so far as to say untrustworthy—something of a villain. It hadn't been easy for Hermione to come to such a conclusion. Her memory was, after all, all that she had. How could she know for certain that it was faulty? How could she know without a doubt that there were details, perhaps even whole instances missing? She couldn't. She could only harbor suspicions founded on instinct. She could only press forward dogged by the vague sentiment that something was wrong.

It should have unspooled behind her like a Muggle film reel—the trail of recent events, one frame leading to the next, a sequential history of how she'd come to be here in Snape's quarters. Yet her memory seemed to skirt the issue. It provided no explanation as to how she'd arrived, how she could have used the enchanted stair to reach his rooms, commanded it to allow her access when she knew that there was complex ward magic in play which had heretofore barred her from this section of the house.

Her treacherous, villainous memory. Could she trust what it told her of Draco last night, of the familiar tenderness of his hands, the fervent recognition of his body? Could she trust what it told her of her own feelings toward him, even now as she knelt in Snape's bed?

The former Potions Master slept. He lay on his back, very still like a corpse. The absence of light did nothing to dispel the illusion. He was pale, his pallor deathlike, and it didn't help that he was swathed in what appeared to be an ancient nightshirt the color of a burial shroud that managed to be both out of Dickens and out of date.

Hermione pulled the neck of the nightshirt down, baring a strip of skin along his sternum. Already, she had begun to forget. The circumstances were no longer unusual. She was simply here in the present beside him, her wand clasped in her right hand.

She shook her head as if to clear it. Surely there was an explanation. Surely there was a reason why she leaned over him as she did, the point of her wand finding the ridge of his sternum mere inches from his heart. No explanation was forthcoming, however. Instead a distant hatred filled the void, answering her unasked questions. Her connection to that hatred was tenuous at best. It felt as if it were far away, removed; as if it belonged to someone else.

Tenuous or not, the hatred moved her. It moved her mind to find a spell altogether foreign and unknown to her. It moved her lips to speak the words, whisper the incantation. It moved her hands, both of them now tight fists around the wand, stacked one on top of the other around its hilt.

The wand looked no different. The surface felt familiar in her palms, the Vinewood smooth, the finish worn slightly in places as a result of her familiar grip. Yet the spell had been cast which had hardened it, forged it anew so that its tip glinted, razor-sharp, poised above his chest.

The hatred moved her hands. Somehow it knew that she wouldn't need force. It knew that the wand-blade would do the work; the spell eradicating the resistance of flesh and bone. The wand sank easily through tissue, penetrated the ribs themselves which formed the cradle around his delicate organs. It punctured with precision at only the slightest motion of her hands.

His eyes flew open. Snape gasped but the sound was cut short, collapsing into a ragged gurgle. Blood in his lungs and bubbling at his lips. His hands shot forward. He grasped, barely seeing. Pain and shock. His hands slipped through her. She fell forward on the wand and its tip perforated his back, emerging to meet the mattress beneath him.

Snape grasped again, this time making contact with her hands, her wrists. His fingers tightened around her, crushing, clenching. Hermione twisted the wand, feeling the damaged viscera inside him as it clung to the wood which had severed it so completely. A hoarse sound pushed through the burbling blood at his lips. His fingers tightened still further on her wrists, threatening to crush the delicate bones until shock began to paralyze him; the trauma seizing his body.

Blood seeped from the wound, slick on her hands, yet Snape managed to hold fast to her wrists. It wasn't until his eyes began to lose focus that she realized that his grip no longer seemed voluntary. It was the fixed rigidity of a dying body, the desperate clench of the mortally wounded.

**OOO  
**

Narcissa woke with a start. The vow was failing. Her first thought: that Draco was in danger and Snape had failed to protect him. It took her a moment to determine that this was not the case. In that instance the Unbreakable Vow would execute, killing Snape if he had indeed broken it. There was only one way for the vow to _fail_ and that was for one of the parties involved to be in mortal danger. If either she or Snape were to die, the magic that bound them would fall inert, like so much stale earth upon an ancient grave.

The bedroom was dark, soundless. Narcissa sat up in bed and reached for her wand beside her, but it wasn't there. Perhaps she'd left it in the drawing room. She couldn't remember. In a panic she rose carefully from the bed, feeling her way along in the darkness. She found a dressing gown and pulled it on, headed in the direction of her closet.

Suddenly, she swayed on her feet. The strength of the vow's magic had dropped precipitously, fading almost to nothingness.

"Severus," she said softly, stumbling forward in the dark. She threw her hands out in front of her to steady herself and that's when they found him, standing in the doorway, barring her path.

"I had only to wait for you to give me his name, but I never would have guessed." Lucius's voice rang out eerily clam in the darkness. To the untrained ear, it may even have sounded as if he was bored, but Narcissa knew better. Her suspicions were confirmed when he pulled her forward against him, crushing her hands to the skin of his chest so that she could feel the anger which radiated from him, anger deceptively absent from his voice. "The half-blood professor, ink-stained and poor, besotted with the Potter wench long ago. All this time, I never would have guessed."

Narcissa tried to pull away, but he held fast to her. Lucius leaned down, his face dangerously close to hers.

"I salute you, Narcissa," he said with quiet irony, "for finding a lost cause, one hardly worth dying for."

**OOO  
**

The horror never crept in. It should have however, given the blood on her hands, the cold fingers circling her wrists. But Hermione could barely grasp the act before she obeyed the command. _Forget. Forget. Forget. You needn't remember. You needn't remember anything ever again. You needn't know my name. You must simply close your eyes. You must simply close your mind. You are lost._

_You are mine._


	15. A Place of Forgetting

**Chapter 15: A Place of Forgetting**

"… put me away," Hermione said.

Her request startled them: Dumbledore, looking aged beyond even his estimable years, his silvery-white beard steeped in gore; and Draco, hollow-eyed in his bloodstained shirt. Dumbledore looked heavenward, steely blue eyes probing, searching for permission from a higher authority if one did in fact exist. He sighed and closed his eyes.

At last, Dumbledore nodded.

**OOO**

It was wrong, all of it, somehow. Draco couldn't find her. He couldn't find Snape. And then the sounds, faint, gruesome, coming from rooms which he knew existed—must exist in this ratty little house, Spinner's End—but couldn't find.

The stairs. The fucking stairs. It was useless. He'd climbed them again and again only to wind up back at the bottom, at the start. They led nowhere, endless.

He was trapped in this dingy room, walls lined with books, worn armchairs, filthy antimacassars; the butt-ends of life as told by neglected furniture and threadbare carpet.

The mark on his arm roared. It throbbed to life, shuddering on his skin. Draco staggered in shock, uncertain as to what it meant. Was he being summoned or was the serpent on his flesh simply howling in indignation with the same fettered fury that Draco felt?

He would not let it claim him. He would not. So he knelt by the hearth and did the unthinkable.

**OOO**

The headmaster's back was to the flames when they changed color. The brilliant green fire cast an eerie shadow over the head's office, bathing the silvery instruments which huffed and puffed on their spindly-legged tables in a phosphorescent glow.

Albus Dumbledore straightened and turned toward the hearth. Draco thought that he had done so rather guiltily, as if he'd been caught out in the middle of something potentially embarrassing. It wasn't until Draco spotted the surreptitious motion of the headmaster's jaw that he realized he'd interrupted Dumbledore in the midst of eating candy.

Dumbledore nodded in greeting, eyes surprisingly calm, as if it were not at all unusual to see Draco Malfoy's head in his fireplace in the dead of night.

"Mr. Malfoy," he said, rolling the offending candy into his cheek. Draco was momentarily taken aback. The greatest wizard of his generation, the one he'd been tasked to kill, had been caught eating candy in his office in the middle of the night.

"Headmaster," Draco began, "forgive the interruption, but something is wrong here."

"Where is _here_, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Spinner's End. Have you been—you don't—it's Snape's house, sir. If you know where it is."

"I'm quite familiar with it, actually, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco squinted through the flames at the headmaster. He got the distinct impression that Dumbledore was toying with him; that his blue eyes were twinkling in the dark confines of his office.

"What is it that's wrong, Draco?"

"I don't know, sir. It's… it's Snape and Hermio—Miss Granger. I don't know, but I think you should… I can't find them in the house, but I can hear things."

Dumbledore leaned forward toward the flames, regarding Draco intently. There was something about the unswerving strength of his stare, which left the young Death Eater feeling curiously exposed and surprisingly frightened. Draco had stood in the presence of the Dark Lord, felt Voldemort insinuate himself into his very flesh, and still that terror paled in comparison to this. Dumbledore's eyes burned him with the intent to strip away all else except the truth.

_Could he know?_ Draco thought suddenly. Was it possible that Dumbledore knew he'd been singled out by the Dark Lord to kill him? Draco hung his head, no longer able to meet the headmaster's gaze. If Dumbledore knew, there was no way he would come, no way that he would ever agree to help him. Draco's breath caught as he realized what it was that he wanted. He wanted—he _needed_ help.

"It's not what you think," Draco said clumsily. "It's not a… trap."

"A trap?" Dumbledore asked, his face impassive. "A trap for whom?"

"For you," Draco answered, still unable to look at the elder wizard.

"Are you certain it isn't a trap for you, Draco?"

"I… no, I'm not certain of anything."

There was a sudden rush of air. The green flames whisked upwards and Draco stumbled back from the fireplace in Spinner's End. Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the hearth in front of him, brushing soot from his robes.

"You say you can't find them?" the headmaster asked, continuing the conversation as if he hadn't just magicked his way into Snape's home in less than an instant.

"Yes, but I can hear something and the stairs won't let me—"

"—Ah, yes," Dumbledore crossed to the enchanted staircase. "Tessla stairs, after Thaddeus Tessla, 14th century. They are merely doing what Snape has asked of them, rendering certain rooms unplottable, in a sense, to those who haven't permission to enter them."

"How do we—?"

"—You'll recall from fourth year Charms that such security measures are often protected by a password of sorts." Dumbledore thought a moment and then stepped onto the first stair. "Lily," he said simply. The stairs seemed to groan before they split off in several different directions at once. There were now several flights branching from the central staircase, some ascending, others descending, each leading to a door or hallway; all possible paths plotted at once.

Dumbledore cocked his head, listening intently. There was quiet sobbing coming from behind a door at the top of a flight of stairs that arced to his left. The headmaster drew his wand and took the stairs two at a time, surprisingly agile for a man of his age. Draco followed hard at his heels.

With the slightest twist of Dumbledore's wand, the door flew open before they reached the threshold. Even as Draco came to the top of the stairs the smell was upon him, thick, cottony, metallic. It caught in the back of his throat, staggering his breath; the warm, wet smell of blood. Dumbledore came to a hard stop in the doorway, so quickly that Draco ran into him. He stumbled back, then craned his neck to peer over the headmaster's shoulder. That's when he saw her on her knees, head bowed, sobbing in the corner of the room.

"Hermione!" Draco said. He pushed past Dumbledore and would have run to her, if it hadn't been for the invisible barrier quickly cast by the headmaster. Again, he felt himself repelled and he staggered back in time to see Hermione raise her head, dry-eyed, and sling a jet of brilliant green light directly at Dumbledore.

_ "Avada Kadavra!" _

The spell ricocheted off of Dumbledore's shield and slammed into the opposite wall, burning a whole through plaster and wood. Dumbledore dropped the barrier and cast a Stunning Spell, which hit Hermione square in the chest. She collapsed, dropping noisily to the floor.

Draco stood panting, his wand drawn, looking from Hermione to the headmaster and back again. In the midst of his confusion, he saw Dumbledore's lips move. The sound seemed to reach him moments later, or perhaps it was then that the older wizard's meaning became clear.

"See to Snape!" Dumbledore said, his wand trained on Hermione, who lay unmoving on the floor.

Draco noticed Snape for the first time, the obvious source of the blood he'd smelled earlier. The young Death Eater stumbled toward the bed, feet half reluctant as he began to piece together what must have occurred. He knelt on the bed beside the former Potions Master, who lay flat on his back covered in blood. Snape's nightshirt was soaked through, so it was hard to tell where the blood was coming from, or if, in fact, blood still flowed. Draco grasped the wet fabric and ripped it down the front, searching for a wound. As he moved the shirt aside, his fingers snagged in mangled flesh, slipped lower than should have been possible had Snape's chest cavity maintained its integrity. The professor's eyes stood open, apparently lifeless in their sockets, so Draco could not understand how the tissue beneath his fingers seemed to flutter all of a sudden. He sprang back from the bed, felt his gorge rise. It took everything in him not to empty the contents of his stomach all over the floor.

"He's dead! He has to be, but he moved, it moved, his chest!" Draco said in a panic. Cold sweat ran down his face and he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, hoping to ward off nausea as his breath came heavy and uneasy.

"Guard her," Dumbledore said. He cast another shield charm and crossed to the bed. Draco couldn't see the barrier but he felt it as it whisked past him, stirring his hair before it fell into place. Hermione remained immobile, lying on her stomach, her face turned into the floor.

Dumbledore leaned over Snape, seeing at first an all too sad and familiar sight; it looked like death, a lot like death. Yet there was something else; a twitch, a hum, an energy where there should have been none.

"It's the vow," Dumbledore said, astonished.

"What vow?" Draco asked, at the limits of his very understanding. _What possible bloody fucking vow?_ he wanted to scream.

"She is pushing—" Dumbledore said, before he broke off. "Quickly, Draco, I will hold the shield charm, you must be my hands."

**OOO**

The stone cell was round, its walls damp, bare, covered in mold, moss, and other unsightly fungus. It was a small space, no more than two meters in diameter, though hundreds of meters below ground, it being the terminus of a long vertical shaft. Narcissa hadn't known of its existence until Lucius had pushed her down the shaft.

The fall alone could have killed her, but at the last moment something had drawn her up short, as if an invisible elastic thread had reached the limit of its extension and snapped back to prevent her collision with the rough stone floor. Whether it had been a spell cast by Lucius, or a function of the cell itself she had no way of knowing. She did know, however, that it was apparently the only magic permitted in this space. Her attempts to Apparate out had been squelched by the almost palpable presence of incarceration wards.

The cell had no doors or windows, confirming her suspicion that she'd stumbled onto—or rather—she'd been pushed into an oubliette. Apparently the manor had one after all; a place of forgetting, a place where one's enemies were dumped, left to rot and ultimately forgotten.

A curious draft licked across the cell sending a chill through her. The current of air told her that there must be access to this place somehow, a hidden door or tunnel; how else would they collect the bones?

A quick glance in the dim light provided the answer. They had never collected the bones. They littered the floor around her, crunched beneath her feet. Of course, Lucius would never collect the bones, never with his own hands touch the decaying matter of his enemies. It would be the province of the house elves and, as chatelaine of Malfoy Manor, her duty to instruct them. If she didn't instruct them, it wouldn't be done and since she hadn't known of the oubliette, it hadn't been done. Henceforth, she would instruct them to collect the bones, provided she lived and they weren't her bones which needed collecting.

Narcissa took a deep breath, trying to quell the panic rising in her throat. No one knew she was here. No one except Lucius. She was alone, truly alone, though she could sense the dungeons around her; she, forgotten, but still connected somehow to the house, the manor. She could feel its age, each venerable room; its corridors crawling with servants; its skin of plaster, marble and stone breathing; its many hearths sighing; Lucius pacing in his study; the Dark Lord's presence throbbing, radiating from the ballroom. It could drive her to madness, feeling the manor and its inhabitants as she did and knowing that she was forgotten.

It was a fitting punishment for betrayal, and perhaps she had betrayed Lucius. Perhaps making the Unbreakable Vow with another man, not one's husband, while not illegal and not necessarily immoral, was suspect. Perhaps, though the vow itself did not constitute infidelity, using that vow, pushing magic through it to sustain the life of the vow holder because she loved him—that was indeed a betrayal. That was what made her faithless. Lucius didn't even know that she'd made the vow with Severus. He'd only heard her speak his name in a way that she should not have. But Lucius knew her. He was her husband. He could read her and, though she didn't credit him with it, he could feel. He could feel the nature of something wrong. He could feel their marriage coming apart at the seams.

**OOO**

It was all he could do to keep from vomiting; his hands stacked above the wound, holding the torn shreds of flesh together while Dumbledore hummed softly under his breath, whispering words, all the while stirring his wand in tight circles as it glowed from red to white to deepest black. Draco turned his eyes to the headmaster, hoping to quiet his stomach. He wondered, not for the first time, if the old wizard were crazy.

Then he felt it, a peculiar pinching at his ears. He realized that Dumbledore's wand was emitting a high pitched whine, which grated against his eardrums.

"Slide your hands apart, Draco, but leave your thumbs and forefingers touching so that they form a triangle around the wound. Now, this next is very important. He may move, but I'll need you to hold him down."

"_Hold him down?_ Isn't he dead?"

"Mostly, but not quite."

Draco meant to groan, but the sound devolved into a guttural cry of delirium. This was madness. He couldn't possibly grasp the distinction between _mostly dead_ and dead. Whatever could that mean? That Snape was not dead? That he was _undead_, an Inferi or, worse yet, a vampire? Tears of frustration and confusion began to well in his eyes. He blinked them back and ducked his head to his sleeve, scrubbing his closed lids against it.

"Steady, Draco," Dumbledore said softly. The sound of the headmaster's voice pulled Draco's head up. He pressed his hands firmly against Snape's chest and nodded. Dumbledore inclined his head in return, a gesture of respect. Then he winked.

Draco barely had time for the cheeky move to register before Dumbledore swiftly drove his wand into the wound. The wand's humming kicked down a notch, cycling at a lower frequency as miraculously the flesh around it began to knit. It bubbled and congealed; thin bloody filaments streaking across the punctured tissue, binding it together with the wand in its midst.

"Tricky business," Dumbledore uttered, as flesh filled the cavity and bone joined anew, shoring up the structure of Snape's chest. The wound was nearly filled and Dumbledore began to withdraw the wand, but the new flesh clung to it, impeding his progress. The headmaster wrapped both hands around the hilt and heaved, but the tissue resisted, even sucked the wand forward several centimeters into Snape's body.

Then a number of things happened at once. Dumbledore pulled his wand again and Snape's body sprang forward with it, screaming. Focus returned to Snape's once lifeless black eyes and his cold hands flew to the wand which protruded from his chest. He would not stop screaming.

"Hold him!" Dumbledore said. Draco pushed against Snape's chest, driving him down onto his back. Snape's hands closed around Dumbledore's and together the two of them tore the wand from his flesh. Blood trickled from the void left by the wand, but it soon disappeared as the remaining layers of dermis and epidermis coagulated, sealing the barrier of skin once more.

Snape's screams dissolved into a wet, coughing sound. There was blood on his lips and it spattered Draco's shirt as he began to choke.

"Turn him," Dumbledore ordered.

They rolled Snape onto his side and watched as he turned his face into the soiled, twisted, sheets and coughed blood into the rucked up fabric.

It was several minutes before the coughing subsided and several more before they realized that the sounds coming from Snape's throat were actual words.

Draco sat shaking on the edge of the bed, while Dumbledore lowered his head to Snape's mouth.

"Curse you… curse you," he was saying, pushing vitriol through his raw throat.

"I am sure I do not deserve your curses, Severus," Dumbledore said mildly.

"Curse you," Snape said again, "for bringing me back."

"I assure you that I would have been content to see you at peace at last, old friend. It was she who insisted. You have only her to blame for keeping you twined to this life."

Snape's lips stopped working. They seemed to harden into a grim rictus of pain before he forced them into motion once again.

"Curse you," he said for the second to last time. "Curse you, Narcissa."

**OOO**

It had been several hours since Draco and Dumbledore had managed to resurrect Snape, and although the former Potions Master was now mostly alive, he was also partly feverish and he was raving. The fever was not unusual for a body as shabbily treated as Snape's, having recently undergone trauma the likes of which most had never known. The raving was another story. It could not be blamed on the fever, nor explained as a physical symptom of recent trauma. It was the intersection of one man's madness and anger and it issued stridently from Snape's hoarse throat.

"What does she want from me? What does Narcissa want? That woman called me back from death to honor a vow; a vow that, if broken, will kill me just the same! She asks too much! All of you ask too much!" Snape howled.

"You're talking about my_ mum_," Draco said. The statement was more for himself than for anyone else in the room. He stated it as fact, hoping that it would help him to understand how his mother had gone and made the Unbreakable Vow with Snape and had somehow, through that vow, managed to keep the spark of life in him and draw him back from the unknowable.

Dumbledore nodded, confirming Draco's words, though they hadn't been posed as a question. He turned his eyes to Draco and bowed his head briefly, apologetically it seemed, before he turned back to Snape.

"Has it occurred to you that perhaps Narcissa loves you?" Dumbledore asked. "It is a powerful magic, love."

"_So powerful it strips a dying man of his dying wish?" _Snape scrabbled amidst the bloodstained sheets of his bed and pulled himself up to sitting. "You will not grant me death as a reward for my service in this life? For my sacrifice? Shall I tell you what I saw beyond the veil? Shall I tell you _who_ I saw? _Who_ welcomed me at last?"

"Severus," Dumbledore cautioned.

"I cannot. I cannot keep caring for these women… their sons, _their precious sons_. I am not a father. I am childless. I have no progeny. It was not to be. _I have no sons_."

"But you have a daughter." The voice that spoke had been silent a long while. It was soft, weary and distinctly feminine. It was Hermione's voice. "You have a daughter," she said again. "You made her, Imogene." She was still on the floor, on her back where she'd fallen after she'd been hit by Dumbledore's spell. Slowly, gingerly, she rolled onto her side and pushed herself up to sitting.

Dumbledore raised his wand, his instinct telling him to put a barrier between them, but one look at Hermione and he lowered his wand to his side. "I believe Miss Granger is speaking figuratively, though she does indeed have a point, Severus," Dumbledore said. The headmaster studied her intently. "You are Miss Granger, are you not?"

"Yes," Hermione said slowly, "but I'm not sure for how long. There's a pattern, when she comes, a way that she interferes, but I can't quite figure it. I need time. With her. I need time, but I haven't any—only this request: put me away."

Her request startled them: Dumbledore, looking aged beyond even his estimable years, his silvery-white beard steeped in gore; and Draco, hollow-eyed in his bloodstained shirt. Dumbledore looked heavenward, steely blue eyes probing, searching for permission from a higher authority if one did in fact exist. He sighed and closed his eyes.

At last, Dumbledore nodded.

Snape couldn't even look at her. He drew the tattered remains of his bloody nightshirt around him and kept his eyes trained on the far wall.

"Very well, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said. "We shall admit you to St. Mungo's."

"No!" Draco said. "They're not shutting you away."

"Draco," Hermione began, but already she was fading, her eyes slipping out of focus. "Yes, Draco, they have to…. You have to… And I, I have…love for you."

Draco stared at her, stunned. Her words he took and held until the burden became too great and the weight of them forced him to sit down on the rough plank floor. He knew that he couldn't keep them, that one day he'd be forced to give them back to her, but he would hold on to them as long as he could. Until then he would keep her words close and hope that they didn't destroy him.

**OOO**

Narcissa didn't trust her eyes in the dim light of the cell. It wasn't until she heard his voice that she realized the two men standing in front of her were real and not a hallucination caused by thirst, solitude or abject misery.

"She has betrayed me," Lucius was saying. The tip of his wand glowed, casting light into the darkened space. The pale blue light illuminated the figure standing next to him, who turned out to be none other than Lord Voldemort himself.

Narcissa started. She pushed herself up along the cold stone wall of the cell, rising to her feet in the presence of the Dark Lord.

Voldemort rubbed his long, spidery fingers together and sighed.

"I'm sure I don't have time to attend to your petty martial squabbles, Lucius. I am rather busy planning a war the likes of which the wizarding world has never seen."

"I assure you this is relevant, my lord. After all, if she has betrayed me, who else might she betray?"

"What do you mean, Lucius?" Voldemort asked, his patience growing thin.

"It is not as Lucius thinks," Narcissa said quickly. Her voice was barely recognizable in her dry, parched throat.

"Then what is it, Madam Malfoy, which has caused your husband to cast you into a dungeon?"

"I have made the Unbreakable Vow with Severus Snape. Lucius imagines that we are linked romantically and it is simply untrue. The bond is a magical one, made to protect my son," Narcissa explained.

"Protect him from what?" the Dark Lord asked.

"Death," Narcissa replied, her words beginning to clog in her throat. "The task you've given him is a dangerous one. He could die in the attempt. I wanted to keep him safe."

"And so you chose, Severus, the child-hater?" Voldemort said.

Lucius swore softly. "As if I wouldn't protect my own son, Narcissa."

"You have failed to protect him!"

"Well, isn't this intriguing," Voldemort interrupted. "The Unbreakable Vow with Severus of all people." The Dark Lord grew still and silent, allowing his thoughts free rein. Lucius, on the other hand, couldn't keep still. His fingers twitched nervously and fatigue blossomed beneath his eyes. "Perhaps you have overreacted, Lucius. You simply cannot leave your lovely wife here in this oubliette, not when she can be of service to me."

**OOO**

"It is toast," Poppy Pomfrey said, "and you will eat it."

"Madam, I _hate_ toast," Snape snarled. The former Potions Master was propped up in his bed amidst a mound of fluffy, white pillows and crisp bed linens, swaddling him vehemently to the mattress. He wondered where the pillows had come from. Certainly there was nothing fluffy in his house. Madam Pomfrey must have brought them with her when she'd been charged with nursing him at Spinner's End.

In addition to the pillows, she'd brought drapes, napkins, handkerchiefs and a well-meaning, though misguided, sense of purpose which led her to scrub windows and floors, dust cobwebs from the rafters and apparently expand his garden of medicinal herbs to include useless, though eye-catching, flowering plants—all with an industrious twitch of her wand.

As a result, Spinner's End was terribly clean, so clean, in fact, that Snape found it thoroughly disconcerting. The amount of light that streamed in through his bedroom windows was blinding. He'd forgotten the house even had windows, covered as they'd been in moldy drapes and years upon years of accumulated grime.

It was now a fit environment in which one might convalesce—or so Poppy had proclaimed, but it seemed to Snape that it was no longer a fit environment for him, feeling moldy himself and weighed down by years upon years of accumulated grime.

"It is no concern of mine that you hate toast, Severus," Madam Pomfrey replied as she bustled efficiently about the room. You will eat it and only then will I leave."

She was a clever one, knowing somehow that her company irritated him even more than toast. Snape shoved the bread into his mouth and chewed laboriously. After several minutes the offending toast was gone and he washed it down with the dregs of a cup of tea.

Madam Pomfrey smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well done, Severus. Top marks." She magicked the dishes away before he could throw them at her. The Mediwitch turned to leave, but before she did, she crossed back to Snape's bedside and took hold of the downy duvet that lay covering his legs. "Let me adjust the comforter for you," she said.

_"DO NOT TOUCH THE COMFORTER, MADAM! I ASSURE YOU I AM COMFORTED WITHIN AN INCH OF MY LIFE!"_

"Very well, Severus. Good day," she said, grinning as she left the room.

Moments later the door opened again and Dumbledore entered, followed at a distance by Draco.

"I rather like having her here," Dumbledore said. "She made the most astonishing breakfast this morning. Eggs, kippers, freshly-squeezed pumpkin juice and some sort of extraordinary pastry—what was it Draco?"

"Beignet," Draco replied.

"Yes, beignet, just extraordinary."

"I'm sure that breakfast was, as the children say, to die for, but since I have already died and not for the sake of any pastry, I was hoping to discuss that which needs discussing, _you insufferable gourmand_," Snape hissed.

"I am fully willing to discuss whatever you like, Severus, only I do not see why one cannot pause to appreciate a thoroughly satisfying breakfast," Dumbledore said.

There was a mildly uncomfortable silence during which Draco moved restlessly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He got the impression that Snape and Dumbledore were squabbling almost as two old friends might, though the patience of the former was worn decidedly thin. Were they friends? They were clearly colleagues, clearly linked somehow in this convoluted tale of Hermione and Imogene, but how far did their relationship extend?

"Miss Granger has been placed in St. Mungo's. Only the three of us are aware of her presence there," Dumbledore explained. Snape nodded. "What did she cast, Severus?"

"The _Impenetra Carne_."

Dumbledore blinked. If he'd been about a quarter century younger and prone to whistling in amazement, he would have. It was a particularly gruesome spell, the choice of Inquisitors during the Goblin Wars. How Hermione—or rather—Imogene would have known to cast that curse was a mystery.

"Why not the Killing Curse?" Draco asked. "She didn't seem to think twice about hurling it at you."

"I have been asking myself the same question," Dumbledore said. "I can only think that she wanted Severus to suffer."

"Why? Did he kill her?" Draco asked.

"No. In a way I suppose I resurrected her," Snape said, black eyes narrowed and leveled at Dumbledore, "which I have come to learn is _worse than murder_."

"How did she die?" asked Draco.

Here Dumbledore drew a deep breath. "It is a long story, Draco, so I shall do my best to shorten it to the relevant facts. Ultimately, I thought to influence you through Miss LeCoeur. She was a student at Beaux-Batons from a pureblood family of Death Eaters. It was a risky proposition turning her to my plan, but at last she agreed. We'd asked that she not speak of it to her parents—they were known to be strict and very much under the influence of Voldemort—but she did tell them, perhaps out of naiveté or the hope that they, too, might be willing to work with us, and it saddens me to say that they killed her. So we are, in a sense, responsible for her death."

Draco simply stared.

"Once Imogene was lost to us, we decided to have Miss Granger impersonate her. She would of course be in no danger from her own family and due to her friendship with Mr. Potter, willing to assist."

"The Polyjuice," Draco said.

"Yes, the Polyjuice, the Time-Turner and the golem," Dumbledore confirmed.

"Golem?"

"You saw me cast it off the tower once," Snape said.

"It's a projection of sorts?" Draco asked.

"It is a double, linked to a wizard's consciousness but in no way a sentient being," Snape explained.

"And all of this to _influence_ me?" Draco said. "Influence me to what? Not to… kill you?"

Dumbledore was silent, parsing his thoughts, wondering precisely how much to reveal. "In a sense, Draco. I know what the Dark Lord has asked of you, but it is not my chief concern. This plan has larger implications. Suffice it to say that I would rather have you as a friend than an enemy and all that that entails."

An offer of friendship from Dumbledore. The old wizard was wily, manipulative, Draco thought. He knew that friendship was perhaps the one thing that Draco had never been offered. Even his privileged life as a Malfoy hadn't been able to provide him with everything. It had never provided him with a friend. Draco shook his head. Was this just another attempt to manipulate him again—this time without the use of a dead girl?

It was too much. He couldn't possibly unpack it all now for fear of falling apart. He turned back to the more pressing matter. "But now Imogene is… _inside_ Hermione?"

"It seems that the Polyjuice has transformed one into the other," Dumbledore said.

"It is not the Polyjuice," Snape spoke. "It is true that I altered the potion so that Miss Granger would become dependent on it. It is also true that this potion had the ability to ultimately transform one girl into the other—or so my studies led me to believe."

"Her hair," Draco said.

"Yes, Miss Granger's hair. It is the color of Imogene's. Yet, I do not believe the potion is responsible. You'll recall, Albus, that I discontinued use of the potion after Miss Granger fled—"

"—She fled?"

"Yes, Draco. She ran off into the Forbidden Forrest. It was most inconvenient. But as I was saying, I stopped the dosage after we recovered her. She was experiencing withdrawal when you arrived, Albus. I had made the choice to prevent such a permanent transformation."

"But nonetheless, Miss Granger, is altered," Dumbledore said.

_"Will you stop calling her Miss Granger?"_ Draco hadn't known what possessed him to say it, but they were talking about her like she was an inanimate object, a mere pawn instead of a person.

"What else do you suggest we call her?" Snape asked through clenched teeth. The boy was wearing on his already frayed nerves.

"Call her by her name. Call her Hermione."

Dumbledore looked at Draco and couldn't help but feel that his plan, however misguided, however cruel, however ultimately corrupt, was somehow redeemed by the look in the boy's eyes when he spoke her name.

"You'll forgive us, Draco. It is the force of habit which dictates that we refer to students in a manner that is friendly though somewhat impersonal," Dumbledore explained. "You'll also grant that perhaps we do not know Hermione as well as you've come to."

The boy colored then, a flush which rose from the base of his neck through his cheeks and touched the rims of his ears.

Dumbledore turned back to Snape. "Is it a matter of possession then, Severus?"

"Of sorts, but I am reluctant to call it that. It is not that Imogene is a restless, angry, spirit who wants to claim Miss Gra—Hermione. I'm afraid we have played a more active role in what has come to pass."

"Meaning?"

"We neglected the remainder, Albus, overlooked it."

"You are speaking of Miss LeCoeur's essence?"

"Yes, that which remains, that which fuels photographs and portraits long after a witch or wizard has left this existence. It is not _life_ or _spirit_, it is not living as we know it, but it is what remains."

"Ah, that which magical beings leave behind," Dumbledore mused. "It is an energy, a limited existence."

"If you can call it an existence at all. I do not believe it is such," Snape said. "I do believe, however, that it may have been unwise to, in the presence of this essence, recreate the girl through false means. Using Polyjuice to mimic a living being is one matter, using it to bring about the image of one who is dead is another matter entirely."

"We taunted her," Dumbledore said. "We dishonored that which remains."

"Perhaps. Certainly, we restored the girl, her eyes, hair, voice, her likeness to a plane of existence in which it was no longer meant to be. I hadn't thought there would be consequences. I hadn't thought what it might mean to restore matter through the Polyjuice, and then the golem, within proximity of Miss LeCoeur's vestigial energy," Snape explained.

Dumbledore lowered himself slowly into a chair by Snape's bed. "We angered her, Severus. We must have. We paraded her own features in front of her, showed her the stuff of her former existence in new flesh. It is only natural that this energy was disturbed, that the Imogene of portraits and photographs desired this life again, and that we, through our machinations, led her to believe that a return to her former existence was possible. But how could she come to claim Hermione? Such energy cannot leap a photograph to live anew."

"I can only think that we gave her a path, Albus. The golem is a link to Miss Granger's consciousness, a bridge if you will. Miss LeCoeur found the path, perhaps subverted the golem to her will, and used it as a doorway to the other girl's mind."

"But what does it mean?" Draco asked. He heard their words and none of them were comforting; admissions of guilt, placement of blame, magic mishandled but what did it mean for her? What did it mean for Hermione?

"It means," Dumbledore began carefully, "that Imogene LeCoeur is a formidable opponent, one which we have in fact created ourselves."

Snape shook his head, not denying Dumbledore's words, but indicating with marked brusqueness that they were insufficient. "It means," he said, "that Imogene will not merely possess Miss Granger, she will consume her."

**OOO**

Purge and Dowse Ltd. had the kind of neglected air that encouraged passersby to continue on their way without a second glance. It may have been the hideously clothed dummies, themselves chipped and chapped, wigs askew and, in some instances, limbs asunder. Or it could have been the sign permanently affixed to the plate-glass window: CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. Whatever the reason, most Muggles saw fit to simply keep right on walking past the homely red brick department store.

So when Draco Malfoy paused to chat with one of the dummies, and then seemed to melt into the plate-glass window, he did so with the utmost caution, hoping to draw as little attention as possible from any Muggle bystanders. As it was, at this late hour there was barely anyone about, and when he passed through the window into the busy lobby of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, he let out a sigh of relief that his entrance had caused little or no disturbance.

Draco kept his head down and walked quickly past the blond woman at the information desk, headed for the Spell Damage Ward on the fourth floor. He'd been instructed not to visit her, for her own protection and his, but somehow the idea of protection for either of them seemed foolish. He was a Death Eater who'd blatantly defied an order from the Dark Lord by calling for help from the very man he was meant to murder, and she was being coerced out of her own existence by a dead girl. They were both of them completely unprotected, utterly vulnerable in the truest sense of the word. It was only a matter of time before one or the other of them was called to account, by death or by delusion.

Hermione was in a private room at the end of the ward. When Draco reached her door, he didn't bother to knock. It wasn't locked, so he simply slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

She was lying on the narrow hospital bed wrapped in a pale dressing gown. She looked up when he entered, expecting a healer or some other member of the hospital staff. When she realized who he was, she sat bolt upright in bed, edging back against the metal headboard as if she could escape him through the wall behind her.

"They let you in!" she said, shocked.

It wasn't at all the reception he'd anticipated, though truly he hadn't known what to expect, or more precisely, _who_ to expect. It appeared that he was dealing with Hermione; he had a feeling that Imogene wouldn't shy away from him so. Regardless, he found himself wounded by her words.

"You wanted them to keep me out?" he asked, suddenly hollow.

"No—yes, I mean, the wards. I put up wards but she must've… altered them. I never know what she does until…," her voice broke. In a matter of mere seconds she sprang from the bed and launched herself into his arms.

Draco held her tightly, though he was somewhat confused. _Hadn't she just implied that she'd wanted to keep him out?_ It didn't make sense, but he couldn't seem to work up the nerve to be angry. She was in his arms; he felt the warmth of her through the dressing gown and turned his face into her hair. She balled her fists into the front of his cloak and dragged him closer, pressing her face into his neck.

They stood that way for a moment until he slowly guided her to the bed, and they both sat down, his arms still around her. "Hermione," he said, gently, as she leaned heavily into him and he felt the dampness of her tears against his neck.

"It's so strange," she said, and then lapsed into silence again, leaving him to wonder what she meant. There was plenty of strange going around. She could have been referring to any number of things: the recent resurrection of Severus Snape, the reemergence of Imogene in her quest for a corporal existence, or lastly Draco himself, who felt quite strange, unsure even of who he was—a Death Eater or a dupe. Finally, she spoke again. "It's so strange, you calling me Hermione."

"It's your name," he said.

"But you never used it. You always called me Granger."

"Well, I suppose it's because you always called me Malfoy, which doesn't translate well, you know. It's like calling me 'bad faith' or something—not at all becoming."

She pulled back from him and quickly dashed the tears from her eyes.

"Actually, even though the name is Old French the Latinate root _mal_ doesn't necessarily mean _bad_. It's a negation, but that doesn't mean it's pejoratively negative. It could mean _ill_ or _un_, as in unfaithful… maybe faithless."

Draco stared at her, wondering how she could be so damned scholarly at a time like this, and then it occurred to him that, if there had been any question, this was indeed Hermione Granger, the same girl who nursed him back to health in a room piled high with books. _You're lucky I'm so bloody smart_, she'd said to him. And there she was, the know-it-all, surfacing again. Something familiar stirred in him, akin to the feeling he used to have when they were in class and her hand shot into the air the instant a question was asked. He'd always had a desire to shut her up, only now he wanted to do it by kissing her, her smart mouth, to silence her precociously busy mind. He held himself in check, however.

"So now you're calling me faithless," he said in a low drawl. "I'm sure I ought to be offended. Generations of proud Malfoys reduced to faithless bastards. "

"I didn't say anything about bastards," Hermione clarified. "I just said faithless and that's not so bad, really. I guess it just depends on who you're unfaithful to. Unfaithful to the Dark Lord—maybe that isn't bad at all." She looked at him head-on then, holding his eyes in her gaze. It was a surprisingly strong stare, challenging, demanding even.

"And unfaithful to you?" he asked, with something of a teasing edge in his voice. Draco hadn't anticipated the pain that crept into her eyes. She dropped her gaze and he realized that he'd been careless with his words; how easy it was to hurt her. "I didn't mean it," he said, pulling her close again. He kissed her softly, shifting his hands to either side of her throat, thumbs stroking the delicate skin along her jaw.

Hermione exhaled against his lips, meeting the warm certainty of his mouth with her own until at last she pulled back from him. He was leaning toward her, ready to follow where she led, if only he could touch her skin again with his lips and fingers.

"It's only… it's only that I don't want to share you," she said. She reached out and ran her fingers lightly over one of his pale blond brows. "Not with her." Her fingers slipped from his brow, traced his cheek, followed the line of his jaw. "I don't want her to know this." His skin was warm beneath her fingers, nearly feverish. Heat bled into her fingertips as he tilted his head, leaning into her touch. He closed his eyes and she was met with the pale blond fringe of his lashes. She kissed his eyelids, felt his lashes against her lips. He broke, then; the measured balance that allowed him to hold her gently in his arms, the delicate restraint that enabled him to sit idle under her fingers, lapsed when her lips met his eyelids.

There was something about her kiss, so delicate and yet possessive of him, that he didn't dare leave unanswered. Draco gathered her close, fingers snagging in the thin material of her dressing gown, drawing her down on the narrow bed beneath him. Hermione wanted him with a selfishness that nearly brought tears to her eyes. He was hers, the strength in him; the grey eyes which searched hers, hidden now beneath closed lids; his lips at her throat, his hands beneath the dressing gown. And yet she couldn't. A broken sob escaped her.

Draco stopped, the sob hanging between them, his heart in his throat and blood pounding in his ears. He looked at her. Hermione was shaking her head.

"That she could know this—_feel this_—is unbearable," she said softly.

"She won't," Draco said.

If only it were so simple, Hermione thought. _If only it were true._ "She's jealous, Draco. She's jealous and powerful and she wants you."

"Well, she can't have me," he said. "I've already been had." He kissed her mouth, warm lips clinging to hers a moment before she turned her face from him.

"I can't be sure," Hermione said. "I can't be sure how much is her and how much is me. She asks me to forget… and I obey. I know I've done horrible things, but I don't remember them."

"_She's_ done those things. _You_ haven't. _You're_ here with me now." Draco shifted his weight to lie on his side beside her. He brushed several strands of hair from her face. "Stay with me. That's the only way this works."

She wanted to. She wanted nothing more, but his seemingly simple request was beyond her ability to grant. Already the panic rose in her throat, mounting with each stilted breath. "I can't" she said. "I can't let her have you, hurt you." Hermione rolled away from him, rising up from the narrow bed. "That's why I cast the wards," she explained, choking back a sob. "I can't love you. I can't. _She takes everything that's mine_."

Draco rolled over onto his back, numb, thinking about those words of hers; the words he'd been carrying close, that he knew he would some day have to give back to her. He'd been unprepared for her to take them back, to withdraw them as if she'd never spoken them, before he'd had the chance to know them, make them his own and return them to her as his own precious gift. He stared at the ceiling, unable to look at her, yet knowing that he had to leave. He couldn't fathom, however, how he would gather what was left of himself having been wronged by words, fouled by language, maimed by metaphor.

**OOO**

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews! They really keep me going. Finally broke the 100 review mark for this story—a personal goal of mine.

**Darkness Approaches**, **Bitty Blue Eyes**, **Noree-Chan, ****.SeDuCtIvE** – thanks for the kind words! I'm glad you're enjoying this fic.

**lacking a better name** – I hear you, more D/H. They are the core of the story even though what I intended to be a Snape/Narcissa subplot has come to the fore. Plus, I feel like we need more of Hermione's perspective, which I'm hoping to work into the next chapter.

**amethystfirechik** and **AlaeaMori** – Snape isn't deaders! I like him too much. And as to Harry's paternity… my studies of the Polyjuice tell me that while genetically he is James's son, Snape was totally flying the plane.

**SusanMarieS** – You hit the nail on the head. I don't like it when Hermione's not Hermione either. So the trick is to maintain her core personality even when it's being challenged by another presence. Easier said than done.

As for my lag time in between updates, I know, I know. Ideally, I'd update every two weeks, though knowing me it will be every three/once a month. I'm trying my best though, and I can promise that there won't be another eight month hiatus.

-NDP


	16. A Chilling Symmetry

**Chapter 16: A Chilling Symmetry**

Harry was dreaming, or at least he thought he was. It was the only possible explanation for why Hermione, who'd been suspiciously absent these past weeks, despite Dumbledore's assurances that she was visiting family, was perched on top of him, chin resting in her palm, elbow spearing his ribs as she studied him intently.

"Boy with the scar," she said. "It's me, your best friend Hermione Granger."

It sounded like Hermione, at least the voice did, but he couldn't recall a time when she'd ever addressed him as 'boy with the scar' or felt the need to announce herself by her full name as if reminding him of who she was. She looked like Hermione, mostly, but something was different. Harry squinted up at her in order to bring her into focus. The failed vision was another sign that he most likely wasn't dreaming. Usually, in his dreams, his vision was perfect, unassailable, even when the point-of-view was in question.

Harry reached out, hand fumbling past the open bed curtains to the nightstand beside the bed for his glasses.

"Looking for these?" Hermione asked. She uncurled from her perch on his chest, withdrawing her elbow and sitting back across his thighs to reveal his glasses clasped in her hand. Harry grabbed for them, but she held them aloft, just out of his reach. "You really can't see without these, can you?" She palmed the glasses in her hand, closed her fingers and then opened them again, revealing nothing but her bare palm. The glasses had vanished in a display of skilled prestidigitation.

Hermione leaned over him again, hands at his shoulders, pinning him back to the mattress. "Can you see me now?" she asked. She gave him little time to respond before leaning closer still, so that her face was mere inches from his. "How about now?"

No, he wasn't dreaming. If there had been any residual doubt, it was soon resolved by the way his body responded once she'd shifted her weight; tensed in a way that let him know that he was decidedly awake and that there was a girl in close proximity to his sensitive bits.

"Er, who…?" Harry began, confused.

"Oh," she said. "You must be looking for the hair, her defining feature. Except for maybe the teeth. But they got fixed, didn't they? Anyway, the hair's still here, only it's a ponytail." Her hair was pulled back from her face, smoothed into a tight ponytail at the back of her head. She grabbed the end of the curly, black ponytail and brushed it over her shoulder so that he could see it. "Honestly, I don't know how she deals with it. I mean, I had a lot of hair, but it was sleek and not so prone to tangle."

Harry stiffened. Her words weren't making the least bit of sense and it occurred to him that something was very wrong here, wrong in a way that set him on edge, fear blossoming at the base of his spine.

"Blimey! What the—?"

Harry and Hermione turned to see who had spoken. Ron was staring at them, bleary-eyed from the neighboring bed in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory.

"Ronald, you're having that dream again," Hermione said. "You know, the one where Harry and I are doing it."

"I am?" he asked, yawning.

"You are. Isn't it just awful?"

He nodded sleepily, but a moment later the anger set in. "Harry, how could you?"

"Ron!" Harry said, exasperated.

"Shhh! You're making too much noise, Ronald. You're interrupting. You have to go back to sleep—so that we can keep doing it."

Ron's mouth fell open in indignation. He looked as if he were about to protest, but suddenly his eyelids drooped and, since his mouth was already open, it was far too easy for him to lapse back into sleep, signaled by a resounding open-mouthed snore.

Hermione turned her focus back to Harry. "He really is a bit of a brick, isn't he?"

Harry struggled to push her off of him, but she pressed him back down, surprisingly strong.

"No need to go anywhere," she said. "I just wanted to see you—the one they're talking about—unfiltered by her memories."

"Who _are_ you?" Harry asked, alert to the possibility that this could be some trick of the Polyjuice Potion, and that perhaps this wasn't Hermione at all. It didn't _feel_ like Hermione.

"Huh. You're not so bad looking," she said. "But I can see why she chose Malfoy."

"What? Why she chose—"

"—such a big destiny, though. Weighty. How does it feel to be a sacrifice, Harry Potter? I hear it runs in the family."

Harry pushed against her, trying to unseat her, a budding anger lending him leverage. He didn't succeed, however. She forced him back down, inordinately strong, this time with a wand pressed to his throat.

"I get it," she said. "I imagine I'd be angry, too, what with Dumbledore fattening me up like a lamb for slaughter. Did he teach you anything valuable really, anything that might save your life? Or did he teach you just enough to get you to the altar?" She laughed. "I guess you don't need to know much to spill your own blood. Any common Muggle can do that."

Something about her words chilled him. There was a grain of truth in them, which pricked him to the core.

"Get off of me," he said, panic rising in his voice.

"Oh, I'm going, don't fret." She leapt off of him suddenly and came to stand beside his bed. In his mind Harry lunged at her, but in actuality he found himself in some sort of body bind, cast wordlessly, which fixed him to the bed. She turned to leave, inky black ponytail whipping around behind her.

"Wait," Harry heard himself say. He realized that there were things he wanted to ask her, whoever she was, about what she'd said, about being a sacrifice and about Dumbledore teaching him nothing. There were so many questions, but the one that stumbled to his lips was, "Can I have my glasses back?"

She turned back to face him and thought about it for a moment.

"No," she said. "I mean, it's the 20th century. You'd think there'd be a spell or something—that they'd be able to fix the boy hunted by the Dark Lord so that he didn't have to go it blind."

**OOO**

Albus Dumbledore looked up from his dog-eared copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ to see Harry stumble into his office absent his glasses and squinting.

"Harry, what is it?" he asked, rising to his feet. The elder wizard crossed to the threshold and led the startled boy to a chair.

"It's Hermione," Harry said. "Or at least it looked like Hermione, in the boys' dorm."

"When?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry thought for a moment, trying to focus. How long had it taken the body bind to wear off? "I'm not sure," he said. "An hour ago or two."

Dumbledore turned to address one of the headmaster's portraits on the wall behind his desk. "Dilys," he called, waking a distinguished looking grey-haired witch from a deep slumber.

"Albus!" she responded gruffly, having been startled awake. "It's nearly two in the morning!"

"My apologies, Dilys, but it's quite urgent. I need you to check in at St. Mungo's and see if our guest is still present."

Dilys Derwent, former Hogwarts Headmistress and Chief Healer at St. Mungo's yawned, but nodded in compliance before vanishing from her portrait. Several minutes passed during which Dumbledore paced the floor of his office and Harry glared at him through a squint, needing the headmaster to offer him an explanation for what he'd just experienced, but unable to formulate a question that would elicit the desired response.

Soon enough Dilys returned. "Gone," she said. "Last person to see her was Lockhart. Tried to push an autographed photo of himself on her yesterday evening."

"Thank you, Dilys."

Dumbledore walked to the mantle of the hearth, scooped a handful of powder from an urn and tossed it into the flames. "Severus!" he called.

Moments later, Snape's head appeared in the fireplace.

"Yes," the former Potions Master answered, sounding bored and annoyed at once. Harry noticed that he looked particularly gaunt and hollow-eyed, however, even for Snape.

"Harry has spotted Miss Granger here at Hogwarts, perhaps an hour ago. I have confirmed that she is no longer at St. Mungo's."

"Hermione was in St. Mungo's?" Harry asked. His question went ignored while Snape heaved a sigh.

"What would you like me to do, Albus?" Snape asked, his words sharp and stilted with anger.

"You must have some idea how we can be rid of Miss LeCoeur," Dumbledore said.

"Dispose of the vessel," Snape replied.

"And by vessel you mean the current body inhabited by Miss LeCoeur."

"Yes. Dispose of the vessel and the energy will become rudderless and dissipate," Snape explained.

"And Miss Granger?"

"Dies."

"_WHAT?"_ Harry sprung out of his chair. "What do you mean Hermione dies? What the hell is going on?"

Dumbledore held up a hand to silence him. "I assure you a long overdue explanation of events is coming Harry, but until then please remain silent." Harry felt like breaking something, but he tossed himself back into his chair, biding his time. "There must be another way, Severus."

"Why, Albus? Have you suddenly grown a conscience as pertains to sacrificing children?" he asked darkly.

"We created this problem, Severus. She should not pay simply because we wrongly sought to manipulate prophecy."

"We've created a lot of problems, haven't we, Albus? We created the problem of Voldemort, did we not? We allowed him to rise to power, to return again to human form by ignoring him. We are all of us guilty; one of us may as well pay the price as the next."

"Do not, Severus. You know precisely what I mean."

"I do, and there is no way around it. The vessel must be destroyed." Snape's words were final. He severed the floo connection.

Dumbledore pulled the half-moon spectacles from his face and closed his eyes, massaging his temples with tired fingers. After several moments, he returned his spectacles to their perch on the bridge of his nose and opened his eyes to look at Harry.

"It is a long tale," Dumbledore said at last, "one best met on a full stomach. I shall ring for refreshment and begin."

**OOO**

The dress was ivory colored and far too complicated for this simple audience, which took place, not in the ballroom, but in the drawing room over afternoon tea. Narcissa wondered at the color, so pale that it stood in stark contrast to the filth which had colored her skin when they'd finally pulled her from the oubliette. She'd been bathed since, and dressed in this confection, the purity of which she felt oddly compelled to maintain, sweeping the hem up from the ground, clasping the heavy fabric tightly in her shaking fingers.

"Ah, but don't you look entrancing, dearest Merope," Voldemort said. He was sitting on the settee, silken black robes rustling as he poured himself a cup of tea.

"I'm sorry?" Narcissa said, not sure that she'd heard him properly.

"I was merely paying you a compliment, Narcissa. Your beauty is rare, like the flower for which you were named."

"Thank you, my lord." The words stuck in her throat, but she managed to free them eventually. "Where is my husband?" she asked.

"Not invited," the Dark Lord replied simply. "Please, sit."

Narcissa settled into a chair across from him, her back rigid, hands clasped together in her lap.

"Tea?" he asked.

She shook her head no, barely able to speak as a sense of foreboding threatened to overwhelm her. No good could come of this private audience with Voldemort.

"But I insist," he said, pouring a cup for her. He balanced the teacup expertly on its saucer and handed it to her. Narcissa claimed it with unsteady fingers. Her tea things had been laid out for their use and she would never forgive herself if she lost a piece of the Black family tea service to her own clumsiness. The cup stuttered against the saucer in her anxious hands, making a faint clinking sound. Narcissa set it down on the end table beside her.

"You should know that it is my mother's dress," Voldemort said, gesturing to the gown she wore. "Her wedding dress to be precise, the only beautiful garment she ever allowed herself."

Narcissa looked down at the lace cuffs at her wrists, thought of the matching high-necked lace collar and realized that there was something old-fashioned about the dress. It made sense then that it'd been worn by a woman who'd lived and died long ago; the woman who'd given birth to the Dark Lord, who, though he was human, never for one moment seemed as if he'd ever had anything as prosaic as a mother.

"It's lovely," Narcissa replied, though the very thought of wearing this particular dress now terrified her.

"You will need it to be, for while I have faith in your charms, the task I have for you may exceed even your estimable beauty."

"I'm not sure I understand," she said cautiously.

"Well of course you don't, Narcissa. I haven't explained yet." Voldemort left that statement hanging between them, allowing its opacity to wreak havoc on her imagination. Calmly, he sipped his tea, waiting for the moment when her nerves would reach their breaking point, then he spoke. "I hadn't realized the extent of your relationship with Severus."

"There is no relationship, my lord. We are mere acquaintances."

"Ah, but you do yourself a disservice, my dear, if you think that any man who engages in a magical vow with a ravishing creature such as yourself is not half in love with you already."

Narcissa hadn't dreamed it possible that she could be more uncomfortable than she'd been upon learning that she was clothed in the Dark Lord's mother's wedding gown, and yet it had come to pass. A distinct feeling of nausea began to roil about in her stomach, causing her to tamp the back of her hand against her lips, delicately of course, in order to stem the potential tide of vomit which threatened to storm her esophagus.

"Not Severus," she managed to say finally. "He has always loved another."

"Ah, yes, Lily Potter, of course. His one great love," Voldemort said. "It would make him very angry with me, would it not, I being the one who killed her? And you and I both know what a man in love will do when he is so wounded, don't we Narcissa? He might seek revenge, might forfeit loyalty to the Death Eaters, might even go so far as to protect Lily's son."

Narcissa paled. "You think Severus is a traitor?"

Voldemort set down his teacup and leaned back against the settee. "I think all things," he said, "all possible avenues, all possible paths."

"I do not believe it," she said.

"That Severus is a traitor? You are not willing to believe this of a mere acquaintance?"

"He serves you, my lord. We all do."

"Yes, you all do, and you especially Narcissa." Voldemort leaned forward and stood. He took her hand in his, guiding her to her feet and leading her over to the large glass windows on the eastern wall of the drawing room. "You will go to Severus and learn what you can. Let us see if he can resist you, Narcissa. If he is faithless, if he will strike down your marriage vows, then he will just as easily flout his vows to me."

"I… I'm not certain that I can. Lucius—"

"—Come now, darling, you must. You must try." Voldemort turned his gaze from the windows to look at her. He still held her fingers tightly in his. "And I shall know if you do not try, Narcissa."

Suddenly, the Dark Lord's presence pushed into her thoughts, spearing through memories, sifting images. There was nothing subtle or delicate about it. It was meant as a warning and as such, was appropriately brutal and intimidating. Narcissa's fingers slipped in his grasp as she sought to protect her thoughts from him, but no sooner had she begun than he withdrew, leaving her shaking, wilting against the windows.

"Are we clear?" Voldemort asked, using his grip on her hand to steady her.

Narcissa nodded, blinking back tears. She was too numb to be shocked when the Dark Lord inclined his head, sketching a shallow bow. He drew her hand to his mouth and kissed the backs of her fingers, touching his bony, parchment-thin lips to her skin.

She could only be grateful for the absence of what she knew must be his forked, reptilian tongue.

**OOO**

These moments of clarity were precious—when sudden lucidity rang clearly through her mind, pealing with certainty, surety; resounding with truth. Hermione found herself at Hogwarts, a far cry from St. Mungo's, in a deserted classroom. It was no longer new—the sensation of waking in _medias res_ without knowing quite how or why she got here—but it was no less chilling in its familiarity.

Hermione studied the room, swallowing the panic that had begun to rise in her throat. She struggled for a sense of calm, waiting patiently for the room to reveal any clues that might explain how she'd come to be here. The dark space spoke tersely, if at all. It revealed nothing, kept its secrets shielded, shuttered as any dark window.

Hermione listened to her breath fill the space. It was the only sound, the only dialogue: her breath in the room and its echoing reply. All she could think was that she'd had History of Magic here, and it was indeed ironic that she found herself now in a place where she'd studied history when she was so completely lacking in her own history at the moment.

She drew herself up from the desk she'd been leaning upon and released her arms which had been folded tightly across her chest. It was then that she felt the object in her right sleeve. She peeled the cuff back from her wrist and was startled when a pair of glasses fell out. Hermione bent to retrieve them and froze the moment she held them in her fingers. They were round and somewhat the worse for wear. They were Harry's glasses.

A distinct chill ran down her spine. Harry. If she'd done something to Harry, if Imogene had in any way harmed Harry, she would never be able to forgive herself. She turned the glasses over in her hands. They were intact, well, as intact as they'd always been when she'd last seen them on Harry's face. It was better than finding them damaged, she supposed, but the mere thought of Imogene confronting Harry was enough to unsettle her. What could she possibly want with him?

What did Imogene want with any of them? Revenge perhaps. To kill Snape and Dumbledore as they'd killed her. To punish Hermione for filling a role originally intended for her or worse yet, for wearing her skin. Imogene had tried to strangle her once, through the golem, but now that she'd found a way to shoulder Hermione aside and assume control of her, she seemed less intent on destroying her. It was almost as if she meant to take over permanently and wouldn't risk damaging Hermione's body.

Hermione shivered in that body, the only one she'd ever known; the body that up until recently was unquestionably hers. She wouldn't cede that body, not to Imogene. She'd destroy it first.

Yet there must be a way. There must be a way to force Imogene out. Perhaps the clue lay in accessing her thoughts. She seemed to know Hermione's thoughts, have access to her memories, use them even. It was the only way she could have gotten to Harry. Was the reverse true? Could Hermione then access Imogene's thoughts?

How would that work? What would that look like, pushing into the other's girl's mind? Did she have a mind? Was she a being, a ghost, a presence? The questions were endless, but certainly not baseless. She and Imogene were undeniably linked. It could not simply be a one-way interaction.

What would it be like, Hermione wondered, not to forget as she was so instructed, but to allow Imogene to come without struggle and to use that moment, that singular instant where the dead girl's thoughts touched hers, as a window, as a dark and tenuous point of entry?

**OOO**

The library was quiet. The books sat silently on their shelves, covers closed, keeping their secrets. The silence suited Narcissa, its weight, its integrity. It was whole and sound, unbroken by dark lord or husband.

She pulled her traveling cloak close around her, allowing its folds to envelope her and its hood to fall forward over her face as she approached the hearth. It wasn't until she was within a few feet of the fire that she was drawn up short, her cloak having caught on something. She turned to see Lucius sitting in one of the chairs before the fire with the hem of her cloak snagged in his fingers.

Narcissa hadn't noticed him there; seated low in the chair as he was; slouched, if it were at all possible for Lucius Malfoy to slouch. His legs were splayed in front of him, his collar undone, his shirt sleeves rumpled and pushed up to his elbows. There was something extremely discomfiting about seeing Lucius untucked. It frightened her even more than the glass of pale amber liquid which rested half empty on the arm of the chair beside his free hand.

Lucius rubbed the fabric of the cloak between his fingers before he turned his eyes to her. "Going somewhere, wife?" he asked.

"You know what he has asked of me," she replied stiffly. Narcissa took a step away from him, tugging the cloak along with her in the hopes of freeing it from his fingers. Lucius held tight to the fabric, however, using the motion to pull him forward to his feet. Her eyes flicked over him as he came to standing, noting the fluidity of his movement, its lack of the usual calculated poise.

"You won't need the cloak," Lucius said. He pushed the hood back from her face and jerked the garment free of her shoulders, exposing the ivory-colored gown beneath. "You won't need the dress either." His hands fell to the skirt of her dress, twining in the fabric there, pulling her toward him. Deftly, Narcissa pushed him off, slapping his hands away.

"And why should you care, Lucius? Why should you, who cast me into a dungeon, who sacrificed me to the Dark Lord just as easily as you did your own son, care one whit where I go or what I need?"

"Is that what you believe? That I sacrificed you, that I sacrificed our son?"

"Yes, that is precisely what I believe."

"Damn you, Narcissa! I did nothing of the sort. I gave you purpose! When you were nothing more than a pretty sylph to be murdered as incentive for our son, _I gave you purpose_. I gave you meaning in the Dark Lord's eyes!"

"Purpose? Meaning? It is a terrible purpose, Lucius, to be chattel, to be a pawn of men, to be used and discarded like mere commodity."

"It is the cost."

"I did not agree to pay such cost!"

"You do not pay it! I pay it. _I_ pay it, Narcissa. I surrender my wife. I watch her leave. I watch her walk away from me into the arms of another. I give her up for lost."

"By your own design, Lucius! At your own behest!"

"Is that all, Narcissa? Is that all that your frigid heart will allow you to see?"

"What else is there to see?"

"That these are not the actions of a man who does not—" he broke off abruptly, swallowing the last of his words.

Narcissa's eyes roved his face, searching in vain for the lost words. They were well hidden at the very bottom of his pale grey eyes. At last, she knelt and retrieved her cloak, fastening it around her shoulders.

"I'm late," she said, turning back to the hearth. Narcissa scooped a handful of floo powder from a tin on the mantle and tossed it into the flames. The fire roared, its flames burning bright green before she stepped into them, her cloak billowing out behind her. She did not see Lucius as he knelt in front of the hearth, the hem of her cloak caught once again between his fingers. She could not see him bow his head and kiss the hem before he released it into the flames.

**OOO**

He had never thought to return to the Room of Requirement in its current incarnation as a hall of lost things. Draco picked his way through the stacks of forgotten objects, wading though generations of clutter, until he came upon a pile of splintered wooden remains. The skeleton of the Vanishing Cabinet had remained undisturbed since he'd last kicked it to pieces.

It seemed liked ages ago that he'd made the choice to abandon the plan set before him, to elude the Dark Lord's task. But it had not been so long ago that the evidence had vanished, decaying over time as any corpse might. The evidence remained. The splintered skeletal outline of the cabinet stared him bold in the face; a frame that, though fractured, could be easily mended with a swift flick of his wand.

Why not? he thought. Why not build it anew, set things to rights, as it were? The path had been clear, the way prepared for him since his birth. The mark on his arm reminded him of the irrevocability of it all. He had never doubted that he would be a Death Eater. He had known it since he was a small boy, had in fact, even come to see it as his rightful due. He had spent his youth constructing the bearing, the poise, the arrogance that he thought served this status. It should have been the culmination of things—taking the mark; instead it felt like being owned.

She had done it. She had somehow caused him to question that which he'd taken almost for granted. She had caused him to question who it was that he would become. Even once she'd seen the mark, touched it, she had not believed its ability to determine his fate. She hadn't said it, not with words, but it had been understood in the way she touched him, as if he were worthy of her touch.

Somehow that had changed. She couldn't love him. Those words she'd said loud and clear. Perhaps she'd finally seen the inevitability of it. That he was what he had always been.

Draco drew his wand, gripped it tightly in his fingers. He found the words for the charm in his memory, gathered them to his lips and released them on the sound of his voice. The wood of the cabinet began to knit, splinters drawn together, forming a new grain, which groaned as it solidified into being. The process could not be got without a groan, could it? There was always pain in reconstruction, even for the inanimate. To force together those parts which had been severed, to reestablish a whole; it was not done without strife it seemed.

So if he were again that boy which he had been, who thought once to embrace the way prepared for him, it would not be done without a certain discord, would it? It would likely feel rank, foul in some way—the reassembly of that which she had caused him to question. It made sense then, his disgust with himself, with the cabinet suddenly whole before his eyes.

**OOO**

Harry stared at the three objects assembled before him. Having his glasses back made absolutely no difference in their appearance. They remained plain and unassuming. There was nothing about them that bespoke their magical properties, nor anything that seemed to merit the name Dumbledore had given them: hallows.

Dumbledore had been just as surprised as Harry to hear scratching at his office door. He'd been even more surprised to see Mrs. Norris slip into the room holding Harry's glasses in her mouth. The elder wizard had taken them from the cat, and wiped them on his robes before turning them over to Harry, who'd slipped them immediately back into place.

Dumbledore had then asked Harry to fetch his Invisibility Cloak. When he'd returned to the headmaster's office, Dumbledore had taken the cloak from him and placed it alongside the two other objects, a stone and a gnarled wand. The headmaster had then told him the tale of the three brothers, the Peverells, whom he believed to have been Harry's ancestors. The rest Harry could not recall precisely. Dumbledore had continued to speak, but he had lost the ability to listen.

What he thought then, he thought now, having been left alone in Dumbledore's office. _That's it? That's the extent of Dumbledore's plan?_ For Harry to confront Voldemort and die in so doing, but perhaps the hallows could aid him; perhaps they might somehow bring him back. _That was all? That was the best that Dumbledore had to offer?_

He had the strangest thought. It was of seeing Dumbledore, not as a man, not as Headmaster, but as he appeared on his Chocolate Frog Card. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. The name itself was like an incantation. The greatest wizard of his age. Champion who'd defeated Gellert Grindelwald. Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. Recipient of the Order of Merlin First Class. He was a legend in his own time and all that he could offer Harry was a rock, a stick and a cloak?

Dumbledore himself didn't even believe it, or he would never had staked the future of the wizarding world on Draco Malfoy and sought to influence him.

_ How does it feel to be a sacrifice Harry Potter?_

Her words stung him like a slap in the face. She'd known. Hermione—or the girl, Imogene, whoever she was, had known.

The three objects sat before him on the headmaster's desk. Hallows or no what did it matter? Harry felt doubt and anger claw their way to the front of his thoughts. The objects were merely the last gifts given to a dead boy. Before he even knew what he was about, Harry tossed the cloak into the flames of the hearth and snapped the wand between his fingers.

She was right. He needed nothing from Dumbledore. He needed nothing from any of them. He needed nothing to spill his own blood. Any common Muggle could do that.

**OOO**

Draco stepped out of the Vanishing Cabinet to find her waiting for him. The cabinet had worked as intended. Its twin stood open in Borgin and Burkes. He'd taken the passage there to the little shop on Knockturn Alley and then back again, to the hall of lost things. As he stepped out onto the stone floor of the Room of Requirement, he spotted her. He hadn't wanted to see her, especially since what he needed of her she had plainly told him she couldn't provide.

Draco retreated to the path which had been prepared for him, one of cruelty and arrogance. It may have sickened him to reconstruct the creature he had been, but at the very least that creature traveled a path that was clearly delineated. Inevitability made it so.

The corner of his mouth twisted upward as he looked at her. He felt the ugliness of the sneer inside him, felt it cauterize the ache that gathered in his throat when he stared at her.

"For my next trick, I'll pull a mudblood from my hat," he said, stepping away from the cabinet with the creaky flourish of an old stage magician. He was hoping to wound her as she had him, only somehow the word felt wrong in his mouth, and when he'd said it—mudblood—he lacked the conviction he'd once had. If anything the word shamed him into an uncomfortable silence. He lowered his eyes, suddenly off-kilter, but quickly raised them to her again, ready to excoriate himself with the pain he knew he'd caused her.

He was shocked then to see that Hermione's eyes glittered, not in sadness or pain, but in something akin to amusement.

"Bravo," she said. "If I hadn't thought you a hard case before, I certainly do now."

He narrowed his eyes. Something didn't feel right about her—not the way she looked at him.

"You do realize that she's trying to keep you away from me," she said, approaching him slowly from where she stood a few feet away. "But it really doesn't work that way, does it?" She moved closer still, stopping mere inches away from him. Her nearness, which had never failed to affect him, felt wrong. It took a moment before he was able to parse her words and reconcile them with this feeling of wrongness.

"Imogene," he said.

"I don't know why she's trying to keep us apart," the girl said. "It's fate, destiny, _prophecy_, even."

"What?"

"Well, surely they told you—how you're going to be the leader of the wizarding world once the Dark Lord's been defeated? You're the chosen one it seems. They wanted you to be worthy, for me to make you worthy."

None of it made sense, but then Imogene was a volatile sort. What did he know of her really? All he knew was that she'd tried to kill both Dumbledore and Snape. He had no way of knowing if she was as prone to make sense as she was prone to attempted murder.

Draco had spent the entire summer with the girl and the better part of the school year, but still he hadn't known her. What he had known had been Hermione all along, walking around in this girl's skin. And now they'd come to it; it was Imogene in Hermione's skin, like for like, a chilling symmetry, a justice that would make poets proud.

"Why should I need you to make me worthy?" Draco said. "Why should I need anything from you at all?"

"Ah," she said, as if expecting the question. "Loneliness is efficient in its way, I suppose. It simplifies things, doesn't it? Let's you close yourself off; particularly appealing, especially after having been hurt. She did hurt you, didn't she?"

It was odd to hear those words come from her, as if he hadn't been staring into those very same eyes when Hermione had told him that she couldn't love him. There was an eerie dissociation that seemed to occur between girl and body. It angered him and in his frustration his fingers closed around her upper arms, biting into her flesh.

Imogene had anticipated such a response. Instead of pulling away from him, she rose up on her toes and leaned into him so that her forehead touched his lips.

"We have something in common," she said softly, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt. "She hurt us both."

Draco hadn't initiated the contact, but he didn't move away. He let his mouth rest against her skin, his lips parted.

"I know what it is to be raised to the purpose of the Dark Lord," she whispered. "I know what it is to wear the mark." She drew back from him then and pushed up her sleeve, baring the underside of her left arm. The pale skin was blank except for the network of blue veins laced together at her wrist. She traced her fingers along her arm, drawing his gaze. "They took it from me, the mark. _She_ took it from me." Imogene slipped her bare arm around his neck and drew his face down to hers. "But it doesn't matter. If there's one thing I've learned from my death it's that I am what I am." She touched his jaw. "And I am inevitable."

Draco saw it clearly for the first time. They were the match as it was intended, as Lucius had so desired all those months ago, without interference from Albus Dumbledore. They were the path well traveled, the slaves of expectation. Together they were the creature unable to question.

**OOO**

**A/N:** My sister has pointed out that Monday is the two year anniversary of this story. Wow two years! I would have been done by now if I hadn't taken 8 months off. Despite all that I'm still glad to be writing it and thanks to all of you who are still reading! I appreciate your reviews, so keep them coming!

That said some reassurances are in order perhaps. I have no intention of jumping ship or perhaps I should say changing ships mid-stream. This started out a Dramione fic and will end that way. It is not a Snarcissa fic, or a Drimogene fic, but that doesn't guarantee smooth sailing….

NDP


	17. The Willing Muse

**Chapter 17: The Willing Muse**

Narcissa's entrance into Spinner's End was completely unlike anything she could have possibly imagined. She emerged from the fireplace, which was remarkably clean and devoid of soot, into the middle of a grand domestic argument complete with dogged, spousal bickering.

"These socks have been darned!" Snape bellowed in wrathful incredulity, shoving his fingers into the toe of the offending hosiery, fully expecting one of his digits to emerge through a hole in the fabric, and reeling with anger upon discovering his fingers denied by whole cloth.

"Well, of course they have! And by a right rudimentary darning spell, too! One wonders how you ever got along without one," Poppy Pomfrey replied in kind, her voice raised to match his.

"I did _not_ ask you to darn socks nor launder linens! You overstep your bounds, Madam!"

"I could not possibly have overstepped any bounds in this house. 'Twould have been impossible to find them, let alone overstep them, covered as they were in filth and decrepitude!"

Narcissa blinked. Her eyes darted between the two combatants: Snape stalking his bedroom in unmitigated loathing, and Poppy Pomfrey, angry but somewhat bemused with her arms folded across the stalwart bodice of her sensible grey bombazine dress.

"You have a guest," Madam Pomfrey said, upon noticing Narcissa standing quietly in front of the hearth.

"I can see that!" Snape roared. His eyes flicked to Narcissa briefly before returning to Madam Pomfrey. "What have you done to the wards, woman? Why has she arrived in my bedroom? All floo travelers should arrive by the Great Room hearth."

Madam Pomfrey gave a derisive snort. "Great Room my arse, Severus. Is that what you call that sad excuse for an Everything Chamber? I fully intend to burn every single stitch of furniture in it when you're otherwise occupied."

"Out!" he cried, using his last ounce of restraint to keep from stamping his foot. It was an undisputed fact that foot stamping was but a hair's breadth from full-on tantrum.

Madam Pomfrey inclined her head in a haughty, shallow bow and exited the room.

Narcissa stood a moment in stunned silence, watching as Snape paced to a standstill. He turned his eyes to her again, let them rove her face unfettered for a moment, before he remembered himself and looked away.

"What do you want?" he growled.

Narcissa opened her mouth to reply and then closed it again, all thoughts of an opening gambit dispelled by the scene she had just witnessed. There had been something personal about it, something private, something human. It struck her that Snape was a man alone, a bachelor, who had, perhaps, neglected the running of his house. It was true that men did such things when left to their own devices; bachelorhood being a rather obtuse state of existence which apparently bred a Spartan imperviousness to creature comforts. It was a terrible life of rough, ragged linens, frayed cuffs and various other sartorial indignities. That Narcissa had just glimpsed evidence of Severus Snape, bachelor, was at once disarming, intimate and embarrassing.

Snape acknowledged the embarrassment, albeit involuntarily, through the high color in his cheeks. "That woman will not leave," he groused, despite the fact that Madam Pomfrey had been gone some minutes.

A tiny smile played across Narcissa's lips; she found brief respite in this moment of levity. Snape's scowl darkened.

"It seems I am plagued by unwanted female guests. Wherever _do_ they come from, I wonder?" he asked, the question plainly rhetorical in nature.

"The hearth?" Narcissa offered. They were the first words she'd managed since her arrival and were apparently self-conscious enough to trip, unsteadily, along her tongue.

Snape narrowed his eyes.

It was Narcissa's turn to look away. She busied herself unclasping her cloak and draping it over her arm while she looked for a place to stow it. Her eyes came to rest on a chest at the foot of the bed and she crossed to lay the garment on top of it, carefully smoothing its folds. Once that was accomplished, she returned to where she'd been standing in front of the hearth, her hands clasped together in front of her.

Almost in spite of herself, her eyes were drawn back to him. Narcissa couldn't help but study him, albeit surreptitiously, out of the corner of her eye. It was the first time she'd seen him since she'd felt the vow failing. She knew that he must have been in some kind of mortal danger and she'd done everything in her power to prevent it. Whatever had occurred had left him pale and hollow-eyed, but overall sound, if somewhat the worse for wear. She breathed a tiny sigh of relief; he was whole in body at least, functional—though functioning remained to be seen.

Snape felt her scrutiny, however covert it may have been, and it chafed his nerves.

"Why have you come, Narcissa? Is it for my undying gratitude? Or perhaps I should say my _dying_ gratitude—that which I felt while dying—until death was cruelly snatched from me by your command. Do you wish to take that as well, my dying gratitude, the joy that has eluded me which I found in death?"

"Severus—"

"—what then? What do you want? Why keep me alive? To protect your son? And if I could have protected him best with my death? What then? There is nothing left, Narcissa. I have nothing. What can you possibly take from me alive that you cannot take _when I am dead_?"

Her heart leapt into her throat. She had no answer for him, at least none that would do. How could she explain that she did not want to take? He would not believe her, not when taking was so much in fashion these days. The Dark Lord took. He took lives. He'd taken her son, her home. Lucius took. He'd taken her innocence, her trust. And once these things were taken, what became of them? They were never returned and one was left to live with the loss.

How could she tell him this? How could she tell him that what she had for him was to be given, not taken? How could she tell him when telling him would seem like nothing more than a ploy on her part to advance the Dark Lord's plan? Yet if she did not tell him, she played herself false; closed the door of possibility between them; invited the Dark Lord's wrath.

There was no suitable course of action; the situation held her fast. No matter what her choice Narcissa found herself bound by circumstance. It exerted a subtle pressure that walled her in at every turn, and it was then that she began to imagine, in her sudden panic, that the dress she wore plied a pressure of its own, constricting at the high neck and cuffs, at the waist and across the bodice.

She gasped and her fingers flew to the row of tiny buttons fastened at the back of her neck. Fear blocked all thoughts of the appropriate charm, one that would unhook the fastenings with oily ease. The dress could kill her with its rows of tight, neat buttons, pearly and petrous, hard like teeth. Her fingers stumbled against them.

"No," Snape said, watching her hands shift to the back of her neck, watching the collar of the dress as it loosened at her throat. "No," he said again, this time panic colored his thoughts. She mustn't do this. The garment was a barrier that must remain in place. He could not fathom her otherwise, exposed in her wretched loveliness. "_No_."

Snape moved only with the thought of stopping her hands. He reached around to grab them, squeezing them to stillness. He hadn't thought of the awkwardness of it: how she would be close and facing him; how her elbows would jut forth as her bent arms framed the space on either side of her head in their triangular hollows; how his hands would be tucked behind her nape.

"Do not remove this dress." It was meant as a command, but somehow once voiced it sounded distinctly like an entreaty.

"Perhaps if I told you who the dress belonged to you might help me remove it." A hysterical little chuckle escaped Narcissa's lips. "But that's what he wants."

Snape found himself unable to move. His fingers remained clenched around hers. "Is it cursed, the dress?"

"Yes, only not in the way you think—not magically," she said slowly. "I have only just come to understand. I am the curse." She expected Snape to agree but he merely looked exhausted in response. "It is the only way for him to use a woman such as me." The Dark Lord would wield her like a scourge, like a plague on men.

Snape stepped away quickly, jerking his hands from hers. "You speak of the Dark Lord? You are here at his bidding?"

"He thinks that you are a traitor, that you protect Lily's son."

Snape's lips twisted into a sneer. "I am to confess to you?"

"I believe I am to tempt you," she said wryly. She sobered however, as Voldemort's words came back to her. She paraphrased them, passed them through her own lips. "I must try," she said. "He will know if I do not try."

"Ah, and I shall bow down at your knees, lay my secrets at your feet, prove myself false?"

She nodded, but she never expected what came next.

Snape knelt. He could do it no longer. He was tired of carefully looking away from her when she had been made to look at. He was too weary to keep the barriers in place. If she was a curse then so be it. If she was a trap designed to snare him in treachery, he could no longer care. He had met Death, wrung its hand and still he walked the path of the living; a path which placed Narcissa Malfoy squarely before him.

He took her hand in his and, with unsteady fingers, unfastened the buttons of the lace cuff that circled the delicate bones of her wrist.

"Very well," he said. "I confess."

**OOO**

Hermione had tumbled over the edge before she could even get her bearings. Fortunately the fall was less than a meter in length, and though the abrupt landing brought her into contact with a hard stone surface, no permanent damage had been done. If anything it was the shock of the fall and the disorientation resulting from her recent reemergence into consciousness that had done the most harm. She sat bathed in the silence of a pitch black chamber, her arms weak and shaking, wholly reliant on the palms of her hands for support where they met the cold stone floor.

After a moment her eyes began to adjust to the darkness. She was sitting beside a massive bed, a tangle of sheets spilling from the edge of the high mattress. She could only assume that she'd been sleeping in that bed and that perhaps she'd dragged the sheets with her when she'd fallen.

It stood to reason. She was wearing next to nothing, a thin, sleeveless shift that left her exposed to the draught of the chamber and shivering with cold. Instinct told her to return to the bed. It was bound to provide more warmth than the shift and was certainly a softer surface than the hard stone floor.

Hermione rose up on her knees, her head cropping up over the edge of the mattress. She froze and sank down again, sitting back on her heels. There was someone in the bed.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn't matter. She knew without looking who it had to be. She'd tried so hard to prevent it.

She didn't want to open her eyes. It was foolish, she knew, but the longer they remained squeezed shut, the longer she could actively deny what she knew. How long could she draw out this moment? How long could she kneel here in self-imposed denial before she opened her eyes and let them confirm a truth, the stark reality of which would crush her?

Not long as it turned out. There was no denying the inevitable. Hermione opened her eyes and rose up on her knees once more. Draco lay on his back sleeping, his right forearm thrown across his eyes, as if he'd been trying to blot out light or perhaps some other bright, foreign reality which had threatened to wake him with its brilliance. He was partially wrapped in what remained of the sheets, but it wasn't enough to conceal his bare arms and chest or the lean calves which crept into her line of sight.

So Imogene had won. Hermione collected the linens hanging from her side of the bed, wrapped herself in them and climbed back up onto the mattress. The immediate warmth kept her from shivering but did little to dispel the sense of cold which had settled into her thoughts, making them dull and sluggish in the hopes of numbing the pain.

How could she have possibly thought to win against a dead girl? Imogene was not bound by the same laws and limits which held Hermione. Not even death had stopped her, so why was it that Hermione had imagined she could keep Draco from Imogene, could keep him to herself? And had she really thought, hoped maybe, that he would not want Imogene, that he would choose Hermione even after she had pushed him away?

She had thought all those things and only now realized how foolish she'd been to think them. Hermione was angry with him, but angrier with herself. She was smart, so bloody smart, but she'd failed to see that this was a battle she could not win.

And there he was beside her, her loss. Hermione looked at him. Then she touched him, her intent being to push him away. She no longer wanted to see him, but when her fingers caught in the skin of his stomach, in the flat ridge of muscle there, they lost their force, their intention. They settled against him and touched him with a solemn heaviness, nails dragging across his skin in a slow dirge of desire, tracing the shape of her loss in eloquent mourning.

Something brought Draco round. It was the quality of the touch, perhaps, which woke him. It was somehow different from the feel of Imogene's fingers, which he'd peeled from his skin and crushed close to her sides in utter stillness. It was elegiac, this touch, familiar, and it kindled heat in its wake. He pulled his forearm from his eyes.

"Hermione?" he asked. His eyes told him nothing that he could rely upon, but her touch made him certain. Her hands stilled at the sound of her name and she nodded.

Draco let out a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding. It made sense that she would surface eventually, but he hadn't expected his reaction to her. He pulled her roughly on top of him, clumsy in his desperation, and leaned up to kiss her.

It didn't matter, he thought. She couldn't love him and it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Time was so short. She would leave him again. He would take this. He would take this moment.

Hermione returned his kiss, feeling his desperation, his urgency bleed into her. Something caught hold of her, the notion that she could steal this time, that it would be hers and hers alone. She knew better, knew that Imogene had uncanny access to all that she had, but that didn't stop her. She was captured by this notion, driven by this potential theft.

Hermione took him in her hands, closed her fingers around the length of him, circling him in an intimate grip. Draco sighed and wondered at her fingers, agile as any seamstress's, stitching threads of pleasure along the seams of his flesh; his body made for her hands of sturdy male cloth; rare, masculine in texture, beautiful. Like fabric he rippled and folded against her as she touched him. His shoulders hitched, shuddered as he arced toward her, his body bowed and bent taut by desire.

And he touched her, she realized, with a peculiar knowledge, not just of the body, of the human mechanism, but a knowledge of what lay inside the housing of flesh. He touched her in the only way that she could be touched, with a body so unreliable, so not wholly her own. He pulled her to the surface of herself, somehow, through the tips of his fingers on her skin.

When had he done it? When had he begun to whisper almost without sound? The words were hoarse and hard to make out—even for he whose lips formed them—but somehow he spoke them, perhaps elementally, through his body; making the inanimate animate, whispering creation, breathing life.

It wasn't a spell, wasn't an incantation, though it had the rhythms and cadences of such, but an invocation. He called to her with his breath, his life, his body and she, the willing muse, answered.

Draco saw the moment she slipped from his grasp.

"No. _Don't._ Stay," he whispered.

Her eyes lost focus and it was a moment before they sharpened again, a new girl surfacing despite his touch, despite his whispered words. He drew back, pushed himself away from her, his body hard, raging in protest.

Imogene's eyes raked over him, taking in the scene.

"Well, don't stop on my account," she said, touching a hand to the flush she'd inherited that ran across her cheeks.

But he did stop. He had to, even though it bloody well felt like starving. One moment more of this, one instant more of this girl who was and wasn't here, and he'd go barking mad.

**OOO**

It seemed like too much to touch her again. Severus Snape had been in the habit of denying himself and so was given to interpret what others might find to be a slight indulgence as gross excess. He still couldn't quite believe that Narcissa would allow him to touch her, had invited it even. And then there was the curious notion that she had touched him, and had purportedly _wanted_ to touch him. After all, he was not made that way, not handsome. He was a mean creature, shabby of heart and intention. Why she should entertain him with her generosity, her beauty, was beyond him.

It was perhaps why he'd retired to the basement room where he often brewed potions and had at one time nursed Hermione Granger. Had it been rude, he wondered, to leave Narcissa sleeping alone in bed? Was it ungentlemanly? He was not good at this. He'd had little practice. He had never woken with a woman in his arms, and perhaps never should. It was impossible to reconcile himself—shoddy, ignoble as he was—with the whole man, the man who woke with a woman in his arms. It was not meant for him somehow.

There was a soft footfall at the threshold behind him. Snape turned to see Narcissa framed in the doorway, wrapped in an old cloak of his that was in much better repair than when he'd seen it last—Pomfrey's work no doubt.

He nodded in her direction then cleared his throat. The fact of the matter was that he was quite simply embarrassed. The sight of her and that tumbled hair clinging to her shoulders—the fact that his fingers had been in it; that its curled ends had touched his face, his chest as she rose up over him—was not easy to endure. To his horrified chagrin it stirred him even now.

Narcissa broke the silence. "Tea?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," he said, summoning the tea service. A kettle arrived along with two stone mugs, a pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar, all seemingly of their own accord. The kettle puffed gently as it brought water to a boil and whistled happily when the water was ready. Snape reached to pour, but the kettle lit out away from him, eager to pour for Narcissa itself. It did so and returned to its tray, not bothering to pour for Snape. The pitcher of cream and the sugar bowl rose to hover in front of Narcissa, awaiting her command.

"Your tea service is absolutely delightful, Severus," she said.

"Isn't it, just?" he replied through clenched teeth. "I have never seen it quite so obsequious." He reached out to pour for himself, but the kettle dodged him again, this time whistling twice in an accusatory manner. "It appears I forget my manners. Are you hungry?"

"I'm afraid so," Narcissa said softly. Before she had even finished speaking, the kettle dashed from the room. It returned several minutes later with a tray of dainty cucumber sandwiches, blueberry scones and clotted cream.

Snape looked sullenly at the offerings. He could not recall the last time the kettle had gone out of its way on his account.

"It seems the tea service is rather… pleased to have a guest," he muttered.

"Pleased? Not plagued, I hope," she said, reminding him of his earlier words.

"Decidedly not plagued. I only wonder where it is that these comestibles have come from."

"Do you?" she asked archly. "I would think you should know."

"Pomfrey," he hissed, as if her name were a curse. Angrily, he shoveled a cucumber sandwich into his mouth.

"She's quite the efficient housekeeper, Severus. You really ought to marry her."

Snape choked, the aforementioned sandwich in his mouth making a hasty exit into his remarkably clean cloth napkin. _"WHAT?"_

"I am teasing, Severus. I had only thought that now it might be okay for me to… tease you a little."

"I do not like to be teased," he said gruffly.

"Clearly, it does not agree with you."

"I am…sorry, Narcissa."

"No, I am," she said, setting down her mug. "I don't know why I thought that this could simply be tea—not between an adulteress and a traitor. I should have known better." It had been nice though, that brief moment of pretend.

Narcissa clasped her fingers together in her lap. She was at a loss as to how to proceed and it showed in her perfect posture—back straight, shoulders down, chin up—the only thing she could control when everything else was in question.

"I do not wish to serve him," she said quietly, "but it appears that I have done just that. The Dark Lord will take my memories and use them to betray those closest to me."

It was true. He would, Snape thought. Voldemort would press the boundaries of her mind until he breached them, flay her thoughts and lay them bare, forcibly extract them to expose the details of this night. The Dark Lord would live them again, those details; insinuate his presence into those close moments when one should turn away, avert one's eyes out of modesty, privacy, respect for the space between two people, the diminishing distance between their bodies, the moment when that distance dissolves, ceases to exist, and they are held apart by nothing. Three is indeed a crowd, even in a Pensieve; especially in the process of Leglimency—the reliving, reviving—the second life of memory.

Is that how Voldemort cheated death? How he _ate_ it? By living others' lives anew through memory? By consuming those memories as his own, devouring them?

Snape could not let that happen. He would not forfeit his memories, nor let her forfeit hers. They were too dear to him. They were the stuff of his second life: this tense, tenuous time since his initial death. They were his all and only—his memories of this night. They were, he realized as he turned his eyes to her, what he lived for.

**OOO**

The stone lay heavily in Harry's pocket. It was the only one of the hallows that he couldn't easily destroy, and that was just as well, for he sensed, if not fully understood, that it served a purpose other than his own. Something about the weight of it, its heft when he held it in his fingers, convinced him that its fate lay elsewhere. He'd been meant to carry it perhaps, to contemplate its igneous rind between the tips of his fingers, but it wasn't for him to expose the fleshy, pulpy magic which lay within.

It was this certainty which drove him to find her. Harry stopped in the corridor to consult the Marauder's Map. Hermione had been absent from the map these past two days, but late this afternoon Draco Malfoy's name had appeared on the surface of the worn parchment and, as Harry had suspected, Hermione's name along with it.

The last time Harry had seen Hermione on the map there'd been two of her. Now there was only one, but that one was dubious in nature. The letters of Hermione's name were faint and faded nearly to illegibility. They seemed mixed up somehow, with the _I _at the start of her name followed by the _M_, then the _O_. Several of the other letters had almost disappeared completely, yet the general shape of her name remained intact, its ghostly outline visible on the yellowed surface of the paper.

Harry started walking again as he followed Draco and Hermione on the map. They'd come to a stop in the seventh floor hallway. He quickened his pace, hoping to reach them in the next few moments, when suddenly they vanished.

Harry stopped. They couldn't have Apparated, not from inside the school. Hermione had told him as much from her repeated readings of _Hogwarts: A History_. He rounded a corner and found himself in the now empty corridor from which they had just vanished. There was no sign of them.

It was the kind of puzzle Hermione would have relished and no doubt solved in a matter of moments, but as she was at the center of this mystery, Harry was unable to seek her guidance. Instead he stood in the middle of the corridor amid a growing sense of frustration. His eyes scanned the hall looking for anything out of the ordinary. It was a typical Hogwarts corridor, full of chatty, unobservant portraits and rusty suits of armor, yet there was something familiar about it.

Suddenly it occurred to him: the Room of Requirement. This was the hall. This was the place. He had only to think of what he needed, what he required, and the room would appear. He stood utterly still, staring at the wall. I need to find Hermione,he thought_. I need to know. I need answers. I need not to be the Chosen One. I need. I need. _His thoughts came in a rush. It was vague at best, not nearly as specific as the room required, but it was all he could think. He could only hope that the room had spent years listening to the shadowy yearnings of adolescents and that it would somehow, in its accumulated wisdom, understand.

Sure enough a door materialized in front of him. Harry stepped through into a space of boundless clutter; things lost, things forgotten. How he would find anything in this place, let alone Hermione, was a mystery. It seemed designed especially to inhibit a search, if not thwart one altogether. He stood still inside the threshold, thinking that the room had a particularly perverse sense of humor.

In the stillness however, he heard footsteps. Harry worked his way toward the sound as quietly as he could, skirting piles of neglected objects, odds-and-ends and bric-a-brac, the varied detritus cast off by generation after generation of Hogwarts students. He rounded one particularly daunting aisle of debris and found himself face to face with Draco Malfoy, who stood beside a large, open cabinet.

Harry fell back immediately and jerked his wand from his pocket. Draco eyed him disdainfully for a moment, before he said in a rather bored drawl, "What do you want, Potter? I'm busy fulfilling my destiny or some such. And speaking of destinies, shouldn't you be about yours?"

Harry looked from Draco, to the tall, oblong box beside him, and back to Draco again. "Where's Hermione?" he asked.

"That _is_ the question, isn't it?" Draco sighed. "I seem to recall I asked you that once. You weren't helpful in the least."

"I don't have time for this, Malfoy."

"Neither do I. I don't have the time, Potter. I've only just re-opened this passage and there are Death Eaters anxious to use it. So perhaps that's where she is, in the passage, or perhaps not. Who can say where the lady really goes once you've disappeared her? It's the mystery that makes the trick so delicious."

Harry's grip tightened on his wand. He opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again promptly as Hermione appeared in the open cabinet. Harry reacted purely on instinct. He jumped forward, pushed Draco aside and slammed the cabinet shut, throwing his weight against it, until he realized that there was a charm that would accomplish the feat of sealing it closed.

"Have you gone barmy, Potter?" Draco roared.

A frantic pounding came from inside the box. Harry backed away from it but kept his wand trained on its closure. "Who is she?" Harry asked.

"Don't be daft," Draco said.

"Tell me, Malfoy, which one is she? I need Hermione."

Draco couldn't answer him. He didn't rightly know. He stared hard at the sealed cabinet. It was Imogene who'd stepped into it, but there was no knowing who she was from one moment to the next. And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? It was a second rate magician's trick gone awry. Put the girl in the box and she disappears, but she always returns the same girl. Saw her in half and she's always whole again, never two halves for all eternity.

The pounding continued, and her voice, hoarse, called out to them.

Draco took a step forward and faltered. His feet stuttered to a stop, a crippling setback along the well-worn path of his fate. Who was he hoping would emerge from the cabinet? Imogene, who'd been bred as he had, raised to bear the mark, or Hermione, for whom he'd been willing to shirk his fate, stray from his path? He thought he'd given Hermione up—or perhaps it was she who'd given up on him, unable to love him as she was—but then she had slipped through Imogene and touched him and called everything into question.I need Hermione, Potter had said, and it struck Draco how dearly he wanted those words for his own.

The box had fallen silent. Draco wasn't sure when it had happened—he'd been lost in his own thoughts. It was the sound of her voice, at last, which drew him to the present.

"Ask me something," she said.

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance, finding instant solidarity in their confusion.

"Ask me something that only I know—me—Hermione."

Harry thought a moment, searching his memories for details. Hermione was good at details. She kept them close, lived them in a way that most people didn't.

"My O.W.L.s," Harry said. "What did I get on my O.W.L.s?"

Draco couldn't resist. "Easy enough to guess your grades, Potter: a smattering of Dreadfuls amidst a slew of Trolls." He didn't see what the point of such a question was. After all, who remembered someone else's grades?

Harry chose to ignore Draco. The room grew quiet. The two boys strained their ears against the silence until finally they heard her shift inside the cabinet. She drew a breath and began to recite the results of Harry James Potter's achievements on his Ordinary Wizarding Levels, from the O in Defense Against the Dark Arts to the D in History of Magic. "And you easily could have had a passing grade in History of Magic if you'd just once opened_ Talcott's Annotated History of the Goblin Wars_—"

"—That's Hermione," Harry said. He moved to unlock the cabinet with a flick of his wand, but Draco stepped forward, blocking his path.

"Wait a minute, Potter. She may have proven herself to you, but I've got a question of my own." Draco turned to the box, addressing the girl inside. "Answer it truthfully and I'll know you by your answer. Lie to me and I'll know you better still." He walked up to the cabinet and leaned against it, placing his palms flat against the door. "Do you love me?" he asked.

Harry blinked in surprise. It wasn't at all the question he'd expected from Draco Malfoy.

Hermione's breath caught. She felt Draco's weight against the cabinet. She heard his voice as it leaked through the wooden seam of the box, muffled, removed, yet startlingly close. It was already too small a space with the door closed, barely room for her to turn with her arms akimbo, and his voice encroached on the remaining space. His words grew large, filling every spare centimeter, each scant idle inch. There was no room to avoid them. They would flush out her answer whether she wanted it or not. He'd left her no room, no margin or gutter, eliminated the periphery necessary for evasion, for escape.

Hermione smoothed the wetness from her cheeks. She sighed and said simply, "Yes."

Draco drew his wand and unlocked the cabinet.

Harry looked away. He couldn't explain it, but he knew that this moment wasn't his to see. It was shocking, then, to find Hermione in his arms. Her hands traced the frames of his glasses and touched his face gently.

"Harry, thank Merlin you're alright!" she said relieved. "She didn't harm you, did she?"

Draco stared at the two of them in stony silence. His face hardened into an implacable mask and there was no disguising the bitter hurt and anger in his eyes.

"What, no warm welcome for me, love?" he asked.

**OOO**

It was perhaps the waiting that was the worst part. Narcissa stood in the drawing room at the manor, awaiting the Dark Lord's presence. He wouldn't keep her waiting long, she knew. He was eager to sift her memories of Snape, but every minute that passed was a torturous exercise in tedium.

She caught a glimpse of her face reflected in the windows on the eastern wall of the room. The dying light outside gave substance to her reflection: pale hair pulled tight into a bun at her nape; and her face, angles and shadows; a feminine chiaroscuro created by liner, smudging and paint, revealing dark-rimmed eyes framed by long, sooty lashes; a contrast to the usual soft, pale, blonde fringe. It was a harsh beauty, sharpened to a purpose.

So armed, Narcissa waited. It was only a matter of time before he arrived and then they would see. They would see if the Dark Lord was deceived by the memories Snape had altered. They would see if he consumed them without suspicion—those thoughts which had been tailored to his dark, clamorous appetite.

It was to her credit that she did not turn when she heard the door open behind her. Instead she waited an instant longer—waited when waiting had become nearly unbearable—until she felt the change in the room, felt the air shift with the urgent, crackling energy of a presence that, while familiar, was decidedly not the presence of the Dark Lord.

"Bella," Narcissa said, astonished.

Bellatrix Lestrange darted into the room. She closed the door behind her _furtively_, Narcissa would have said judging from her movements, and yet the door sprang from the woman's grasp and collided with the jamb with such a resounding crack that there could be nothing furtive about it. It was like Bella to attempt the thing, and then somehow in the doing, produce its opposite. Despite her best intentions she slammed doors.

"Greetings and salutations, Cissy," Bellatrix said, tilting her head slightly as though listening to Narcissa's reply before she'd had the chance to speak it.

"What are you doing here, Bella?"

"What am I doing here? I should think it would be obvious, Cissy. He has sent me." Narcissa studied her sister, the gleaming eyes, the unruly dark locks which strayed over her shoulders. There was something about her, her dark dress slightly askew, a cuff torn, flapping carelessly from her wrist. It was as though Bellatrix were coming undone, as though every time Narcissa saw her, some part of her was out of place. It was troubling that Bella didn't seem to notice it; that she neglected herself; let things slip and lapse and stray.

"_Who_ has sent you?" Narcissa asked.

"Why the Dark Lord, of course. He wants me to see to your memories." Bellatrix danced toward her sister, fingers outstretched. "Come now, I'm going to filch your thoughts, suck them right out through my fingertips."

"Don't be silly, Bella. The Dark Lord wouldn't have sent you. You're not a Leglimens."

"_You're not a Legilmens_," Bellatrix parroted, her voice a high, shrill imitation of her sister's, thin and mean. "Silly, Bella, thinking she's a Leglimens. But you should know, Cissy. You should know that there are other ways of getting information."

Bellatrix produced her wand from the folds of her dress, twirled it lazily around her fingers.

Sadness formed a lump in Narcissa's throat. Bella hadn't always been this way. She hadn't always neglected herself, her humanity, for the pleasure of cruelty. She hadn't always spoken in threats.

"Don't you want to share, Cissy? Don't you want to share your memories?"

Narcissa turned away from her.

"Frightened, is it? That's what happens when you send a girl to do a woman's job," Bella hissed. "And why he should have chosen you I cannot fathom. Ever since we were little they have always chosen you. I cannot see it. So pale and fragile, fine-boned they said. Narcissa Black, how like a doll. How like a delicate porcelain doll. And they couldn't see what I see: so vapid and mealy, effete."

"Stop it, Bella."

"_Stop it, Bella._ They favored you. They all did. And Lucius, what did Lucius see in you? I was never sure. Did he want to fuck you or merely keep you on display, in a curio somewhere; a curiosity to behold?" Bellatrix's eyes glittered with unhealthy light. They gleamed, rabid and feverish, a zealot's eyes. "What is it those filthy Muggles say, a penny for your thoughts? A penny, a pound, it's all the same. I'll have them all the same—your thoughts—for a pound, for pain."

Narcissa felt it coming even before the movement of Bella's wrist confirmed her worst suspicions. She dove behind the settee. The curse flew high and just wide of her, burning a hole in the mantle of the hearth. Wood splintered and crashed to floor.

Narcissa threw up her arms to protect her head and crouched low behind the settee. She listened for movement, for her opponent's breathing, for any sign of an attack to come. It hadn't truly registered that her opponent was her sister; she couldn't let it, she needed to keep that thought at bay.

With her wand trembling in her fingers, Narcissa peered around the settee and cast a Stunner. It missed and Bellatrix returned a quick volley of curses, some of them Unforgiveables, others Narcissa couldn't even recognize. She crouched lower, peered under the settee, aiming for her sister's feet.

"_Expelliarmus,_" Narcissa said.

Bellatrix danced aside. "Really, Cissy? Footsie, is it?" She twirled her wand wildly and hurled another curse. It missed Narcissa by mere inches. Enraged, Bellatrix leaped over the settee, landing squarely on her younger sister. They rolled on the ancient carpet, Bellatrix kicking and clawing, Narcissa suddenly truly livid, suddenly possessed enough to jab her wand into her sister's ribs point-blank and hiss for all she was worth, _"Crucio." _

Bella's eyes widened in shock and her body grew rigid as pain rippled through her. She said in astonished wonder, "Look at you, Cissy. You finally found something worth fighting for." And then she howled, writhing on the floor.

Startled, Narcissa withdrew her wand, but Bellatrix continued to shriek, the sound piercing her ears.

"Bella?" Narcissa gasped, her voice fraught with concern. _"Bella?"_ Narcissa shook her sister gently, but Bella's body remained rigid in her grasp.

At last, the wailing dissolved into hysterical giggles.

"He calls," Bellatrix said, and thrust out her left arm. Narcissa saw the inky black mark twist and contort itself on the pale surface of her sister's skin. "He calls," Bellatrix said again, as she kicked free of Narcissa's grasp and scrabbled to her feet. "I won't be late," she whispered to herself. "The devoted are never late."

Bellatrix touched her wand to the mark and disappeared.

Narcissa stared at the empty space where moments ago her sister had been. She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut against the ghostly image which hung in the air before her: a Cheshire image of her sister's dark, crooked grin.

**OOO**

Hermione stepped out of Harry's arms. She turned to Draco, whose words were as unkind as his face. She said nothing to him. She had said all there was to say with the wall of the cabinet between them.

In the silence Harry looked from Hermione to Draco. Dumbledore said that he had put them together—Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy—but he hadn't mentioned what held them together. Now, seeing them, Harry had an inkling of what that might be: their ability to wound each other.

For while Hermione looked small, isolated even in her vulnerability, and Draco's face was thunderous, neither one could turn away from the other. They were drawn to each other. Draco listed toward her, almost imperceptibly, as much as he wanted to keep himself apart.

Harry didn't want to think on it. He found himself not quite jealous, but possessive. Hermione was his, a part of him, and Draco had clearly hurt her. It was enough to propel him forward into the other boy's path. He would've cursed him, at the very least put his hands on him, if Hermione hadn't put herself between them, staying Harry with a hand on his chest.

"Not now," she said. "We don't have time."

Harry fell back. He could see Draco behind her, arrogant as ever, still as stone.

"What is it, Harry?" Hermione asked. "You were looking for me."

Harry took a breath and then plunged a hand into his pocket. He drew out the stone, holding it out to her on the flat of his palm.

"I came to give you this," he said, "the Resurrection Stone." And then the words tumbled out, all of them, everything Dumbledore had said about prophesies and hallows, death and sacrifice.

Hermione shook her head. "I can't take this."

"You have to," Harry said urgently. "Snape said there was no other way."

"He told you to give me the stone?"

"No, I… I just did it."

"What exactly did Snape say, Harry? About me and… her."

Harry dragged his fingers through his hair, agitated.

"Kill the vessel," he said, not remembering precisely, but knowing that the word vessel had been used. It was such an odd choice, that word. It put him in mind of a ship, not a person, not a body, a human with a soul. But then it was Snape who'd been talking and given that he supposed it made sense. Snape himself was, after all, dark, obtuse, full of bits of odd phrase and malice.

"Kill the vessel," Hermione echoed, lost in thought.

Harry nodded, hoping that he'd got it right and that there wasn't another reason why he'd offered those words. The phrase sounded eerily similar to the one that haunted his dreams: _Kill the spare_.

After a moment, Hermione spoke. "I won't take it, Harry. There's another way. I've just got to find it."

"You've got to take it. You don't have a choice," Harry argued. "_I'm sick of people dying for me!_"

"But you don't get to choose," Hermione said. "Whoever told you that you get to choose?"

"I'm afraid she's right, Potter," Draco said. "That's the thing about being the Chosen One; others do the choosing for you."

What happened next happened so quickly that Hermione was barely able to register it all. Draco drew his wand and hexed Harry, leaving him doubled over and gasping for air. He grabbed Harry by the front of his shirt and angled him toward the cabinet with his wand thrust painfully beneath Harry's chin. Hermione drew her own wand but quickly stilled when several cloaked, hooded figures poured forth from the open cabinet.

"So it works," the first figure said. He pushed back his hood. It took Hermione a moment to place him: Nott. "It took you long enough, Draco, but that's neither here nor there now, is it? Lead the way." Nott stepped forward, but Draco shook his head.

"I'm afraid there's been a change of plans." He nodded to Harry, who sagged in his grip. "Now that I've got Potter, I'm taking him directly to the Dark Lord at the manor."

"But the school?" Nott asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Pointless, really. Only valuable as a stronghold for Dumbledore and his sympathizers."

"Dumbledore's dead then?"

"No, but he will be," Draco answered. "He'll come for Potter, no doubt. He's as good as dead."

Another hood fell back, revealing Dolohov. "I don't like it," he said.

"What's not to like?" Draco asked. Despite the interrogative form, it wasn't a question. It was a warning.

Dolohov eyed Draco suspiciously. "I'll take the boy then."

Hermione moved to stop the Death Eater, though he hadn't stepped forward to make good on his assertion.

"What's this?" Bellatrix Lestrange said, as she pushed back her hood. "The mudblood's had a makeover?"

"Mudblood?" Draco asked, his eyes drifting lazily to Hermione. "Ah, it's not quite what you think, Aunt Bella—or perhaps I should say, _who_ you think."

"A mudblood's a mudblood, Darling Nephew," Bellatrix replied with an airy laugh.

"Except that this one's a pureblood."

"What?" Bellatrix said. "Whatever do you mean?" She crossed to Hermione and pinched the girl's arm. Hermione jumped, but managed to keep from crying out.

"Really, Bellatrix, do you wish to draw her blood and question it?" Nott said, annoyed.

"This is Imogene LeCoeur," Draco explained. "She's taken over Granger."

"You mean Polyjuice, with a touch of the Imperius, perhaps?" Bellatrix's eyes grew wide in delight.

"Yes, yes, the old Barty Crouch, can we get on with it?" Dolohov said. He stepped forward and snatched Harry from Draco's grasp.

"Alright then, it's back to Knockturn Alley and then to the manor. Tell the others they needn't come through," Nott said to Dolohov. The latter nodded and disappeared into the cabinet with Harry. Nott and Bellatrix followed.

Hermione stood stunned, staring at Draco. He pushed her in front of him and she stumbled toward the cabinet.

"You played your role perfectly, Granger. I knew Potter would come looking for you, and clearly it's Potter I want. It's Potter that seals my future." His lips twisted then into something between a grin and a grimace; not kind enough to be a smirk, not cruel enough to be a sneer. "Come along, then, if you want. Maybe Imogene saves you. As for myself, I can't say that I will."

Hermione stared into the hard lines of Draco's face. Heavily, she stepped into the cabinet, into the unknown, a destination as unfamiliar as the boy who now stood behind her.


End file.
